


Ein Anderer Tag

by MakLeon



Category: Unsere Mütter unsere Väter | Generation War
Genre: Berlin (City), Drama & Romance, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Survivor Guilt, World War II, Česky | Czech
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:22:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5207396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MakLeon/pseuds/MakLeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it takes to put the puzzle of war-broken lives together when the pieces do not seem to fit anymore? A Unsere Mütter, unsere Väter/Generation War AU in which Friedhelm Winter survives and makes his way through Böhmerwald to a post-war Berlin. Coming back home is not the end of the journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Der Überlebende - The Survivor

**Author's Note:**

> When I watched Generation War, like everyone else, I hoped that five friends would survive. Since I couldn't think of a way of "saving" both, Friedhelm and Greta, in one piece of fiction, I decided to make this a save-Friedhelm story. The story begins where it actually ended in the series.  
> Although I occasionally use German and Czech words for a more authentic experience, the story is obviously in English. So, unless specified otherwise, it is implied that the main characters speak German all the time. Since I am not a native speaker, please let me know if you find any errors in German, Czech, or English.  
> If anyone out there is interested in this fandom and the story, I'll be happy to hear from you! Feedback is always greatly appreciated.

**Brief historical background:**

After Germany had signed an unconditional surrender, the war was not yet completely over. What still remained of the German army - some radical extremists among the Volkssturm and Wervolf units - refused to surrender, and hid themselves in the forests (the Sudetes mountains and Böhmerwald), a natural border between Czechoslovakia and Germany on the north-west and Austria on the south-west. They knew that if they were caught, they would be sent to prison or executed, so they had nothing to lose. Robbery, occasional outbursts of violence, and attacks on the civilians went on throughout the whole summer of 1945. The Soviet, American and Czech troops tried to hunt them all down and succeeded only by 1946.

The situation was aggravated by the numbers of ethnic Germans who for many years had lived alongside the Czechs in the Sudetenland, the region of  Czechoslovakia bordering the forest. In 1938, Germany took control of the Sudetenland, and in 1939, the rest of Czechoslovakia was invaded. After the war had ended, many of ethnic Germans were deported, killed, or violated against by the local population. The remaining population tried to escape to Germany and Austria through the forest zone.

**May - June 1945**

In spring, this forest ceased to be an asylum.

The trees seemed to mock people in hiding. There was no mercy in the naked black branches with no green leaves springing from them.

The sun looked a pale projector shining through the clouds the color of dirty linen.

The colorless sickly-looking grass could never make its way through the dirt; and even the lightest footprint was easily discernible.

Only the birds were still by people's side.

As usual, crouching in the shrubbery, Branka was waiting.

Waiting for the far-away machine gun to cease its splutter.

Waiting for the loud tracks to pass by.

The allies. She could still catch up with them.

Not a smile but rather a grimace on her rubber-dry lips.

It would have been  good to know who the allies were now for her, and for how long.

Only upon hearing the timid bird chirping again, did she dare to straighten her back and push aside the prickly branches.

Perhaps, she could find some gun cartridges on the spot. Or maybe even more than that.

An anxious backward thought. She'd gone too far. The gun fire was so loud - for the first time since...

She suddenly remembered her aunt Petra's favorite saying, "Let the sleeping dogs lie..."

Yet, she desperately needed the cartridges.

***

It was already getting dark by the time she found the place.

Something was lying there in between the trees, by the trace of the truck wheels.

Not so easy to see in the evening mist.

One step - yet another. Her shoes were leaking, and all this muddy water on the road did not help.  

Branka stepped forward and bent over the heap of camouflage.

She should have expected something like that. All the weapons - if there had been any - taken away. Apparently, she was not the only smarty pants in this place. Perhaps, something was left in the pockets though...

Her hands quickly became slippery because of the still warm slimy liquid.

She hastily examined the man's pockets, then, shuddering with disgust, she turned him around. Come on, you heavy bag of manure!

No, nothing for her. Only rags and scraps. Oh yes, and a book filled with unintelligible scribbling wherever there was some blank space left. Is that how German soldiers pass their time between the shootings?

She sneered. Yet, for some reason, she didn't throw away the water and blood-swollen volume. She still remembered Petra's warning,  "Even if everything is on fire, don't you dare to throw out dry bread or damage a book." Funny. Everything they owned had been burnt, and still she didn't dare to.

Absent-mindlessly, she found a dry spot on the man's uniform. While she was wiping off the dirt and blood, her fingers occasionally brushed the stranger's cheek.  She felt unexpectedly soft stubble, grimaced and drew back her hand.

Yet, she could not help but look briefly into the dead face of the fallen enemy... and started. His still bright grey-blue eyes stared at her through the matted eyelashes.

The blackened cracked lips moved slightly.

That was not a human moan, it sounded more like an animal. She once heard a dog whining at the back yard after the soldiers just like this one had shot it...

She recoiled. Even after so many times of seeing dying people, she still couldn't quite get used to...

No, don't you stare at me. I am not going to waste on you my two remaining cartridges. No knife either. You'll die on your own soon enough.

She wanted to go away; she almost turned around and then heard ever so faint, "Hilf...[1]"

The dark blood gurgled, bubbled and trickled down his chin. The man was suffocating. One didn't even need a knife. It would have been enough just to press on his chest a little bit harder.

***

Just a boy - a very young boy - under all this heavy and bulging camouflage uniform. Probably, hardly more than twenty.

His clothes-less body was almost weightless. It seemed to her like a sieve with so many bloody wound holes in it.

Three exit wounds in his shoulder and leg. His right wrist hang helplessly with two fingers blown off completely.

White bone.

Something pinkish-white.

Blackened burnt flesh around the bullet entries.

Well, how could she possibly be expected to deal with all this? It wasn't some minor splinter to pull out with forceps.

At least, there was still some moonshine left in her dugout.

***

Branka could barely hold her eyes open.

Her hands, clothes, face, and hair were sticky with dried blood.

It seemed she'd spent hours and hours - the whole night and more than a half of the next day - by the German's unresponsive body.

Hardly knowing whether she was indeed helping or more likely than not killing him.

Václav's old trousers, someone's footcloths, and shirts which had been left here since the last fall - everything was wasted on wrapping and cleaning the wounds.

Her hands were shaking.

The lamp fire was about to go out.

Salty suffocating blood smell.

When finally done, she fell asleep right in the heap of bloody clothes.

What for? He's bound to die.

***

Every morning right after waking up, she checked on him and curiously listened to the wheezing and hissing noise somewhere deep inside the wounded chest.

Still alive.

Still breathing.

Just a boy.

It was easier to think about him that way. To imagine that he hadn't been up to much harm. That he wasn't as guilty as the rest of them.

She tried not to listen to the delirious German words gargled through the gritted teeth. She would have liked to stuff something into his mouth but then, for sure, he'd suffocate.

She tried not to think about what she'd been doing. Anyway, soon she'd have to dig a grave, so what did it matter who he was?

***

"Wilhelm, kein mehr... Vorbei...[2]"

"Mlč[3]."

The caterpillar tracks right across his chest and legs. It is so dark and stuffy here. He can almost hear his bones cracking.  

Wie viel mehr[4]? It surely cannot last forever, and when the end comes... he is not at all scared. There is no hell in the hereafter. He has left the hell behind in that grove as he left those grimy Volkssturm kids and the machine gun rattle.

As his head aches, and his chest is being squished, he cannot help but dully wonder  if there can be any burning tanks in the hereafter. What about that yellow light from above? And that girl's pale face?

***

His first meaningful words were old as the hills.

 "Wasser, bitte[5]."

She noticed that his bleary look had somewhat brightened, and now he was watching her instead of staring blankly.

" _I can't believe it! **[6]**"_

"Was?[7]"

Widening pupils. Uneven breathing.

"Wo bin ich? Was...[8]"

" _Here, drink and be quiet_."

Holding his head and tilting the cup to his lips had already become a habit. Yet, this time she tilted it perhaps a bit more than necessary.

He coughed and turned his head away. Some of the liquid spilled on the blanket.

Whatever. Try that on your own. It's not like I care if you choke.

His hand was trembling as he tried to grasp the cup. Of course, without any luck.

"Ich lebe noch...[9]"

She couldn't quite recognize what was that in his voice. Surprise? Fear? Disappointment?

" _Don't get overly excited. You can kick the bucket any time_."

He frowned.

"Ich kann nicht verstehen[10]." And suddenly, almost without an accent. " _Вы можете говорить по-русски_?[11]"

Her heart missed a beat. So, he was from the Eastern front. Where else would he learn Russian? Little German scum.

Yet, she was more angry with herself because she hadn't had enough spirit to finish him off in the grove. 

Even after she saw what they had done to Václav... saw his wild bloodshot eyes. No longer a human. Just a wounded terrified animal.

***

The other day the German woke up all sweaty. Swollen cracked lips could hardly move.

"Bin ich im Gefängnis?[12]"

The question took her aback, and she thought it best to keep silence. Soon, he'd pass out again anyway.

Yet, he still watched her and frowned slightly.

"Bist du tschechische? Die Partisanin?"

" _I'll let you figure that out on your own_."

"Verstehest du mich oder?[13]"

" _I've had your lot as my neighbors for way too long but it's not for you to know_."

He sighed and coughed painfully.

She surely was not going to... and yet, again, old habits die hard, and she patiently held the cup while he swallowed and  trembled.

"Danke... sag mir ... bitte... der Krieg... vorbei ist?[14]"

As if he were speaking to a baby or a deaf-mute.

I wonder why he is asking me. He should have asked his dumb authorities. What can I possibly know in this by-place?

" _I haven't heard any shooting for a long time_."

He watched her perplexedly apparently trying to grasp some meaning in the foreign language gibberish.

If it were someone else, she would have probably even felt sorry.

The problem was she didn't know what it felt like anymore. To be sorry for someone.

***

At night, she heard him again.

"Aufhören! Aufhören, verdammt noch mal!.. Sie sind alle tot.[15]"

It seemed to her that everyone in the forest - both Germans and Russians - could hear his ravings.

She wanted so badly to stuff the blanket into his hateful mouth. Her own mouth tasted blood.

***

The boy was silent for several days after. He only watched her sullenly.

No - she reminded herself - he was not just any boy. He was an enemy. A dangerous beast.

Yet, would a beast have childlike-pink cracked lips? Or teenage-like acne under the stubble?

***

The thin grain and sorrel soup. The German was able to feed himself now albeit awkwardly using his left hand only and splashing half of the liquid.

He winced when another drop fell down and said calmly.

"Das Stroh brennt bei dem Ofen[16]."

She moved so swiftly that her head hit the low ceiling. All the floor was paved with dry grass and wood cuts. They stood no chance against even the smallest fire.

" _Where? Come on. Show me quickly_."

She heard him coughing or rather wheezing.

When she turned around, he was smiling with - what seemed to her - arrogance.

"Aber du verstehest Deutsch ziemlich gut.[17]"

You, Nazi!

Beside herself with rage, she knocked the cup out of his hand.

The soup spilt and simmered onto the stove.

She noticed - not without inner satisfaction - how the German winced from pain. Yet, his eyes were still bright and full of mockery.  

He didn't move or say anything, and she bit her lip. Indeed, she only made more trouble for herself. There was not much more grain left, and she had no choice but to share her own soup ration.  

"Nein... Es ist nicht...[18]"

Oh really, you don't want this? Did anyone ask you? Just look at yourself. A bag of bones. You know, I didn't waste so much of my time to see you dying of hunger now.

***

" _Well... You are quite_ schlecht. _Do you seem this? No, don't look at your right hand, you dummy. Yes, you've lost some of your fingers but it's not the worst, believe me. Your knee is swollen, and I have no idea what the heck is going on inside your chest. I somehow managed to pull the bullet out of your shoulder but I am not a doctor, so I can do nothing about your chest. Do you understand_?"

The German laid back down and closed his eyes.

"Wie lange bist du hier?[19]"

Is that any business of yours?

"Wahrscheinlich, Deutschland hat kapituliert.[20]"

As she bent to bandage his shoulder again, his hot feverish fingers clasped on her wrist.

" _Hey, what do you think you are doing?_ "

"Du muss... deine Leute finden. Das kann nicht mehr langer dauern.[21]"

She wriggled out and noticed that the beast seemed to have become stronger. Only a few days ago he could hardly raise himself up.

" _Now, do you see this pistol? Don't think I'm an easy game. If you only move as much a toe without my permission  - I'm warning you."_

He only scowled at her.

"Kannst du wirklich schießen?[22]"

" _Wanna see? You needn't doubt me. At this distance, even a child can knock you out."_

He brushed the pistol away. 

"Dummkopf... _Blázen_. Was kann ich dich jetzt tun?[23]"

Me? I am not as helpless as those you are used to dealing with.

As if upon overhearing her thoughts, he grinned listlessly.

"Egal. Du wirst mich nicht toten. Hast du schön vergessen? Du hast mich gerettet.[24]"

***

The German was silently biting his lip. She could swear she'd even seen unbidden tears in his eyes. Why was she even being gentle with him? It would have been easier to simply tear off the stubborn bandage.

Yet, she couldn't help but say comfortingly:

"Ein wenig Geduld.[25]"

She bit her tongue but all too late.

He quickly raised his eyes.

"Danke."

She only gritted her teeth and tightened the bandage.

He didn't smirk. His voice was calm and very matter-of-fact.

"Mach dir keine Sorge. Ich verstehe dass du mich hasst.[26]"

No, I doubt that. All of you turned your blind eye on us for years and years. You probably thought us too stupid to know our luck.  To be governed by the greatest nation ever. If any of you had really understood what it was all about, we wouldn't be sitting here now.  Neither of this would have happened.

Was he mocking her or truly trying to apologize?

"Wenn ich Tschechisch sprechen könnte...[27]"

***

"Warum bist du hier alleine?[28]"

Because you guys have taken care of my family.

But she didn't say it aloud.

The fire was cracking merrily in the stove.

The days were becoming longer and warmer. Young  green grass and moss instead of the mud. The birds chirped untroubled by any gun shots. It seemed that summer had finally arrived.

Her aunt Petra died at the end of the last summer...

The flames of fire were almost black. The insufferably white sun was blazing through the storm clouds. Branka fell onto her knees back then and covered her ears. Matka Boźi, da pomoc[29]. Let the rain fall - right now - while it's not too late. Let Petra live. Even without any hair or skin. "Mother, mummy, mom..." Branka had never called Petra "mother" while she was still alive. Why was she so stupidly stubborn?

The storm came only in the evening. The raindrops were sizzling upon the burnt books and fallen wooden beams. The ash mixed with the mud.  

The Germans took Václav and the others in September. They didn't trouble themselves with hanging or shooting the partisans. They didn't want to waste the cartridges, so they simply used tommy-bars and shovels.  She heard his bones cracking and saw white and red spatters.  He only managed to cry out, "Branka, forgive me!"

"What? What for?"

For just a brief moment, she wanted nothing more but to run there, straight  into the human mess. But she couldn't. She wouldn't.

There were about ten German soldiers. She was alone as well as Stepanka. The math task was simple.

Her finger didn't pull the trigger. She bit into the earth not to scream.

Yet, all her math calculations didn't save Stepanka.

Branka couldn't save anyone.

She thought it was because cizího krev neteče[30]. 

She was just a foundling after all. An ungrateful cuckoo.

Yet, she had just rescued the German soldier.

Did his "hilf mir" outweigh Václav 's death-cry?  The odor of aunt Petra's burning body?

Stepanka's pitiful childish wail: "Budiž svêtlo! Oh, jà jsem se vlka bàl[31]."?

As she remembered all this, the red mist came over her eyes.

She clenched the bandage. She wanted to strap it on the German's neck instead of his shoulder. She wanted to see his blue eyes bulging.

Yet she couldn't, not while he was so weak. After all, he could barely lift himself off the bench.

***

"Branka, you traitor!" someone's fingers clenched her throat. Someone's hands were holding her - no way out. No!

She woke up with a start. Her throat was sore, and her heart was racing madly.

The German was sitting by the lamp leafing through the pages of his book wrinkled from the dried blood and water.

He turned to her and asked in a matter of fact voice.

"Weiß du den Schriftsteller der heißt Nietzsche?.. Nein? Egal. Er hat immer gelugt. Wie die anderen.[32]"

" _What?Was your Nietzsche the same as you guys? Did he also used to slaughter people like chicken?"_

The German scowled.

"Bitte, bist du nicht müde? Du weiß dass ich dich nicht verstehen kann.[33]" His mocking smile barely touched his lips. "Aber wenn es dir Zufriedenkeit bringt...[34]"

  "Zufriedenkeit?" She barely could restrain herself. "Only if all of you finally croak, I might perhaps have some Zufriedenkeit."

He didn't bat an eyelid.

"Warum hаst du mich im Wald denn nicht gelassen?[35]"

Indeed, why? She hadn't slept so many nights, washed his stinky wounds, fed him like a newborn baby. Why?

"Warum? Du hast mich gebetet.[36]"

His usual paleness turned to green.

"Das kann nicht sein[37]."

"Yes, you did. Look at you, so brave you are now. And there, in the grove, "Hilf mir, bitte."

She felt a surge of spiteful joy noticing his face changing.

"Hör auf![38]"

"Ah yes, you were probably scared for your precious self. You didn't care that much about other people, did you? You thought they were perfectly fine to be hang, shot down, and burnt, didn't you? It was perfectly fine for a three-year-old baby girl to die of cold because I had no medicines to treat her with. It was okay with you because we are not humans. We are no match to the Aryans."

The German was holding onto his book so tightly that red spots became visible on the white shoulder bandage.  

His voice sounded tired and listless though.

" Ich hatte keine Ahnung dass ich noch leben möchte.[39]"

***

The German was lying on the bench almost without any motion. Simply watching the ceiling, and turning away when she brought him the soup bowl.  

"What's the matter? Do you feel worse?"

He watched as if not seeing her.

His huge sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones. 

"Listen to me, stop this sulking now. Come on, take this spoon. I'm not going to baby-sit you any longer."

"Lass mich doch mal."

The tone of his voice was such that she immediately recoiled and unwittingly took hold of her gun.

The response died in her throat. The German soldier's desperate anger was hanging in the air, almost visible like the thick grey smoke from the stove. She was suddenly out of breath.

As she was blindly clambering to the entrance, she heard him muttering quietly, "Entschuldigst[40]."

***

In the middle of the pitch-black night.

"Wilhelm! Nein!"

Still half-asleep, Branka grasped her pistol and occasionally knocked the pots off the stove.

"Now, what's that? Let me sleep, won't you?"

The groaning quickly stopped. When she lit up the candle, the German was already wide-awake. His bandage yet again a mess.

Burning and sweaty forehead. Bright eyes.

He awkwardly recoiled when she tried to wipe off his face with a piece of wet cloth, and that's when she noticed that his cheeks were wet.

His voice was raspy.

"How stupid of me. I haven't had any dreams whatsoever for four years. It has always been pitch dark as soon I closed my eyes. And now look at me. Whining like a baby."

She spent the night wetting the cloth on his forehead to bring down the fever and fell asleep next to him. She forgot everything about her gun.

***

"Wie heißt du denn?"

"Branka, and you?"

He seemed surprised.

"Are trying to say you haven't even looked into my Soldbuch?"

"I haven't seen it. Neither the paybook, nor your identification disk. Those who shot you down must have taken everything together with your gun."

"Perhaps, it's for the best. By the way, I'm Friedhelm."

"Und wer ist Wilhelm?"

He absent-mindlessly tried to grab the spoon with his right hand and winced painfully.

"Mein Bruder."

"Where is he now? Is he also a soldier?"

He answered reluctantly,

"No idea. He was in the penal battalion once."

"Oh really? Let me guess why. Did he shoot at and miss some poor civilian?"

For some reason, she felt somewhat uncomfortable. His eyes were cold and distant but not at all angry.

"Könnte es vielleicht Sarkasmus sein? Dein Deutsch ist wirklich gut.[41] "

"Danke. I've had good German teachers in uniforms."

***

When the German saw the ever-lessening daily soup ration, he only sighed.

"Thanks. I'm fine. Eat it yourself."

"No, you need to eat more now. I can always manage with some wild berries, or go fishing in the creek."

She had also tried to put a trap once. The squirrel was still alive, and she couldn't bring herself to smash its head. She left the wriggling animal in its trap hoping it would die quietly at night. Yet, all that was left in the morning was some bloody red fur in the snow. Wolves were howling close by for weeks after that, and she did not venture for another trap.

"Listen, Branka."

"Žе?[42]"

"You cannot stay here on your own. It's not safe. You need to get back to where you came from."

"Right, should I leave all this to you?"

"Don't worry. I am not going to stay here for long either. I'll go as soon as I am able to walk."

"Don't you dare. Have you seen this pistol?"

"Sure, many times."

"Well, then. Maybe, it will help you remember that you are basically my prisoner. I might have saved a German, but I'm not letting one run away."

"You're being silly. The war is over. Why do you always have to stick it into my face? The trigger mechanism isn't working anyway."

She was taken aback.

"It cannot be. It was ok in the fall. Perhaps, it just got rusty... Wait... how do YOU know?! "

"You always sleep so soundly."

For a moment, his eyes twinkled mischievously and she couldn't help but grin at him. As if he were not her enemy but some boy she had known from school.

"Do you want me to fix it?"

"I'll take care of it myself. I'm not going to give you a gun."

"You can take out the cartridges, pošetily[43]."

"Watch your spoon, dummkopf. You cannot even use your hand let alone fix my gun."

***

Still, Branka had her concerns, and in the evening she asked the German.

"Give me your hand. No, not the right one. The hand that you can use."

"What's it all about? Perhaps, you might want to simply hang me upside down?"

"No, only the brave German army uses such methods... How do you feel? Does it hurt?"

"As if you cared."

He turned away with an air of indifference.

"Look at yourself acting offended. Well, whatever. Stay like that all night long. I could indeed care less if your fingers get numb. Even better for me if you could use neither of your hands."

"What if I need to use the john?"

"You'll wake me up. I'm used to taking care of your shit by now."

Unlike with other men she had known, it was easy to be cheeky with him. He was a German, and he didn't judge her. That was strangely comforting.

***

When the German clambered out of the dugout for the first time, he looked around and shook his head in wonder.

"Not bad. One could easily walk by and not notice anything from a long distance.."

"Did you think we were hiding at the top of the mountain? Here, take this as your crunch. Can you get out of the ravine on your own? "

He painstakingly climbed up and almost immediately fell to the ground. His chest was raising heavily, and she could still hear that rasping noise.

"I'd so like to have a smoke."

"With all your coughing? Fat chance."

He squinted at her apprehensively. Bright baby-blue eyes.

"Now what?"

"Nothing... It's just that I didn't know you were a redhead. And freckles... I also somehow thought you were much older. "

Look at yourself, you little Wehrmacht scum, with your cracked pale lips, long dirty hair and skinny neck. Old Václav 's shirt and torn trousers that were way too large.

Yet, she was not longer angry at him.

***

"Wer ist Stepanka[44]?"

"Do I also talk in my sleep?!"

He smiled.

"It happens sometimes."

"You should wake me up?"

"What for? I don't mind your nightmares. That way I always remember where I am."

Something  was hard and sore inside her chest. It was so strange to hear Stepanka's name muttered so casually in a boyish German voice.

"She was my daughter. We lived here after the partisans had left."

"Is that why you don't want to leave this place?"

Branka always wanted to live so badly. Last summer after Petra's death, for the first time, she understood what "lust for life" actually meant. Her lust was becoming more and more desperate , as more and more people died around her.

As she was wandering through the deadfalls and marshes for several days in a row - the mud in her summer shoes, her bloodshot eyes searching for the tiny nicks on the trees that led her to the partisans' lair...

As she was cradling the dying child and listening to the wind howling and raindrops slowly seeping through the ceiling and splashing onto the wooden floor...

There were no sounds or colors left - only the white blizzard and distant dreary wolf howling...

She thought that was the end.

But her lust for life grew only stronger.

She understood then that she wanted to survive at any cost - even under the earth like a rat or in the forest like a homeless dog that had gone wild.

Like a shipwreck victim dying of thirst and drinking the deadly seawater.

What about the ten commandments?

What about guilt and atonement?

Ich hatte keine Ahnung dass ich noch leben möchte...

 

[1] Help

[2] Wihelm, that will do. That's enough.

[3] Shut up (Czech)

[4] How much longer?

[5] Water, please.

[6] Words in italics are supposed to be in Czech

[7] What?

[8] Where am I? What...

[9] I am still alive

[10] I don't understand

[11] Do you speak Russian? (Russian)

[12] Am I a prisoner?

[13] Can you what I am saying?

[14] Thank you... please tell me... has the war ended?

[15] Stop it, damn you! They are all dead!

[16] The straw is burning next to the stove.

[17] You understand German quite well after all.

[18] No... it's not...

[19] How long are you here?

[20] Perhaps, Germany has surrendered.

[21] You must find your people. It cannot last any longer.

[22] Can you really shoot?

[23] Silly... What can I even do to you now?

[24] It doesn't matter. You won't kill me. Have you already forgotten? You've saved my life.

[25] Just a little bit patience.

[26] Don't worry. I understand that you hate me.

[27] If I could speak Czech...

[28] Why are you here all alone?

[29] Virgin Mary, help (Czech)

[30] A Czech proverb. Literally, the stranger's blood doesn't flow. The English equivalent is: We can always bear our neighbors' misfortunes

[31] Leave the light on. I am scared of volves.

[32] Do you know the writer named Nietzsche? No? Well, it doesn't really matter. He was always lying. Other also lied.

[33] Please, aren't you yet tired? You know well enough that I can't understand you.

[34] But if it gives you any satisfaction...

[35] Why didn't you leave me in the forest then?

[36] Why? You've asked me.

[37] That cannot be.

[38] Stop it!

[39] I had no idea I still wanted to live.

[40] Sorry

[41] Is it supposed to be sarcasm? Your German is quite good.

[42] What (Czech)

[43] Silly (Czech)

[44] Who is Stepanka?


	2. Irgendwo in der Welt

**July 1945**

"What are you reading now?"

She once leafed through his book just for the sake of curiosity since reading had never been her strong side, and reading the notes in German even less so. All this unintelligible pencil scribbling on the margins. Blood prints and dried mud trapped inside the water-swollen pages.

"Words, words, words..."

"Oh, yes, I almost forgot that I am an untermensch, and won’t be able to comprehend anything.”

He grimaced as if having a toothache.  

"Have you ever heard of Hamlet?”

The name rang familiar.

“Is he a Nazi?”

His eyes were sympathetic and mocking at the same time.

"He was the Prince of Denmark whose uncle had killed off his father and married his mother.”

“Really? Too bad for him. When did it happen?.. Wait, are you pulling my leg?”

He was laughing openly now, and she glared at him.

"It’s my small revenge for your refusal to teach me Czech.”

Indeed, she did not want to. She did not want to hear her native language casually spoken by some German.

For a while, he watched her glowering face, then nodded to himself, and opened his book.

"Well, if you are really interested to know.... This is not from Hamlet. It’s just a poem by a German-speaking writer. Believe me or not, he was not a Nazi. He was actually even born in Prague, back in those days when that territory was the part of Austria-Hungary." 

"You don't say so."

"Wer jetzt weint irgendwo in der Welt,  
ohne Grund weint in der Welt,  
Weint über mich.  
Wer jetzt lacht irgendwo in der Nacht,  
ohne Grund lacht in der Nacht,  
lacht mich aus.

Wer jetzt... "

"Wait, who is he even talking about?"

"Can you please just listen till the end? The poems are somewhat like music. You either feel them or not."

She fell silent and twisted the lock of her hair. She could not understand everything in this poem, but yes, she could hear the music in his voice. She even actually enjoyed it, which was slightly disconcerting.

"Should I go on?"

She nodded.

  
"Wer jetzt geht irgendwo in der Welt,  
ohne Grund geht in der Welt,  
geht zu mir.  
Wer jetzt stirbt irgendwo in der Welt,  
ohne Grund stirbt in der Welt:  
Sieht mich an.[1]"

As he stopped reading, the strange music inside her head died away.

He watched her expectantly, and she was dully silent.

"Now we can talk about it if you want. What is it that you don't understand?"

"Everything," Although she tried to keep the edge off her voice, her answer rang thin like the pieces of broken glass.

"Really?”

"Yes … I used to think you all were some kind of inhumane beasts but it appears you are not…" She felt a lump in her throat, "What I don’t understand though is how one man can write anything like this, and another man can read this, and then,  just go out and start up a war…”

She could not go on and wanted to crawl outside, but then, she heard him saying.

“Didn’t I just tell you? It’s all only words, words, words.”

She turned around swiftly and saw his bright clear eyes. His usual self-deprecatory smile.

She was wrong. He was just like everyone else. Just like those soldiers who had burned down her house. She again felt the red rage in front of her eyes.

He caught her wrist before she could slap him in the face. Where did he muster his strength from?

She was so surprised she did not even push him away.

His lips were dry and cracked. They had a bitter taste.

Her wrist throbbed.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"And you?… You forgot all about your gun, how could you?"

She hit him hard in the chest. He gasped but kept on laughing while trying to catch his breath.

"I am not going to waste my cartridges on you. Even a child can knock you out now."

"Even so... you were not in too much haste to lash out."

She remembered then.

_It was also a bright summer day. The two of them – Václav and her – in the maze of her loose hair._

_"Branka, my golden girl."_

Her lips were burning. She wiped them off with her sleeve and spat out the taste of this stranger sitting next to her.  

"Is this all you are capable of, you, worthless Wehrmacht? Aren’t you sick of yourself?"

"You bet.”

He turned away.

All her rage suddenly gone, she sat back down and watched his thin neck and dirty matted hair.

***

After all her efforts of carrying the water up and down the ravine, Branka could barely stand straight.

 Three buckets full of water standing in a row. A small dolly-tub that served for doing laundry and bathing Stepanka back in wintertime.

"Come out, will you? I've drawn a bath for you."

It took him a while to crawl out of the dugout and limp heavily along the ravine edge.  

" Is this water all for me? What about you?"

She shook her wet hair back from her face. Her wet rugged dress clinging to her body.

"Don't you see? I've already taken care of myself."

"You'd better save this water. The buckets are heavy for you to carry. I'll try to get down to the spring."

"No, you won't. The path is too steep. I'll never be able to drag you up. You're obviously heavier than this bucket."

He shrugged his shoulders stubbornly.

"In a week or so, when I am better..."

"In a week or so, our hut will be full of your lice. Here, give me your clothes. I'll wash them and dry in the sun while it's still hot."

He slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Still not used to do this with one hand only.

"Could you turn away, please?"

"What for? Not like it's the first time I see you, and then, anyway, I need to take a good look at your wounds at the daylight."

Haggard and pale. Yet, his shoulder and chest seemed a bit better. She couldn't say the same about his swollen knee though.

Notwithstanding his protests, she helped the German wash himself.

He squinted as the soap ran down his face.

Such long eyelashes. Just like the girl's. She giggled softly.

"Here, take this blanket. Sit over there in the sun. Warm yourself up. I'll get more water from the spring."

He took hold of her hand.

"Branka, I am sorry for what I did today... "

"Take it easy. I understand. Our men also used to go off the rails sometimes. Living in the woods without women did that to them. I remember once Václav ..." she checked on herself. 

He did not even seem to listen to her.

His face grew very still. His eyes shot left and right.

"What is it? Are in you in pain again?"

"Hush!"

She had been alone for so long. Hearing no one and nothing but rustling of the wind in the leaves. Timelessness and solitude. As if this German and herself were the first and last people on the Earth.

She had gotten used to this solitude. She stopped hiding. Stopped being careful.

She had been splashing in the spring earlier in the morning. She had rattled her buckets.

She did not even notice that the birds - her loyal allies - had fallen silent.

The soft thudding of someone's heavy boots.

The bushes crunched under someone's foot not so far away from here.

The dissonant gibberish of the foreign speech. Neither German nor Russian.

Judging by the sound of voices, no more than three or four people. Yet, so noisy that anyone could hear them. That meant there was no one for them to hide from and be scared of. The allied forces. The victors.

It was too late to disguise the entrance of their dugout.

Late and not really necessary.

Thinking of that, Branka unwittingly took hold of the gun she had never lost from her sight.

As she turned, she saw the German's eyes. His stare interlocking with hers.

She only needed to cry out. After all, that was what she had been waiting for all this time. For the allies to come and take him.

He understood her intention perfectly well.

He raised his wounded hand - his good hand clutching at the blanket - and pointed at the heap of his dirty clothes. 'Will you let me dress myself, or I will be convoyed out wrapped in the blanket only?" His eyes full of mockery seemed to ask her.

As if in some bad dream, she shoved the clothes into his hands and pushed him back into the dugout.

***

Branka barely managed to cover the entrance with the fir branch when the three tall men peered curiously into the ravine. Their smiles were almost identically white and even; their handsome faces were suntanned.

The fourth man was short. His freckled face with its snub nose was vaguely familiar.

As she glanced at him, something in her sunk.

Tomash...

That of all possible men it should have been him... isn't this ironic?

"Branka! Jsi to opravdu ty[2]?"

The three American soldiers watched in amused bewilderment as Tomash - Václav's former classmate and best friend, once upon a time, in that different life before the war, a journalist and literary translator in Prague - babbled on excitedly mixing two languages - Czech and English - asking questions and supplying his own responses.

" _Guys, not to worry. She is my good friend's wife._ Branka, proĉ jste tady[3]?  Is this indeed that famous lair poor _Václav_ told me about? Yes, it must be so! I knew - I've known all this time - that you are alive. I knew we'd meet one day. At a girl! Just look at you. Me? Oh, I'm back at my old business now. The army hired me and a couple of other fellows from Prague for interpreting. Since they don't know these places, I am also their guide. You bet that without me, they would have been lost."

Tomash held her so tight it even hurt. His warm palms on her back. His trusting smile.

Her breathing still a bit raspy and her heart beating rather fast, Branka listened to him in disbelief. Was it possible that he indeed was clueless about what had happened?

"Now, Branka, don't you cry for I might cry myself. Where is Stepanka? She must be scared of our noisy lot, poor child. I can imagine, you both have been here for how long? Do you even know that the war is over?"

"Over?!"

Her knees were shaking now. She might have fallen if it were not for Tomash's firm arms still around her.

"Why? What are you scared of? Sure, it's over as it should long have been. Well, where is my little god-daughter? Stepanka? Come out. Meet your uncle Tomash."  

Here we go... Branka pushed his hands away and moved one step back. More than anything, she wanted to turn away and run, but that being impossible, she forced herself not to lower her eyes.

"Stepanka is no more. She caught a flu and died in the end of the last fall."

It was a bit curious to see his face hardening. The gloom turned familiar features into stranger's.

"I see..."

She stared him back defiantly. Yes, Tomash, that's right. That's what happens when men are too busy playing spies and partisans to take care of their families.

" _Václav_ loved her so much... Well, that's it, isn't it? Couldn't keep her, could we?"

"Where have you been before? It's all too good for you to blame me now."

"I don't blame you, Branka. God be my witness, it must have been much harder on you than it is on me."

"The good ones always go first."

The Americans impatiently exchanged some brief gibberish with Tomash. He hastily and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder.

"We have to go, Branka. I... well... I would have taken you with us, but ... we are not coming back to the village right now. We were sent to track down the Werwolfs up there in the west. A couple of weeks ago, the Russians took down one of their units. It's actually been quite nasty. They had some Wehrmacht officers among them and caused us all quite a bit of trouble. Together, we've eventually taken care of most of the Heinies, but some of them are still on the run. Now, it's up to our unit to comb through this part of the forest."

Did that mean that some Germans were wandering close by?.. She discreetly glanced back at the dugout's entrance.

"You said the war was over."

"Not for those nutsies... You shouldn't be afraid though. We've pretty much gone through each and single bush in this area.  The Heinies have nothing to do here. They are either by the Austrian border or further up by the Soviets. But yes, it's been a hell for us. They've scattered around like cockroaches and continue their raids into the cities along the forest line. We've been cornering them here, at Böhmerwald, and the Russians have taken hold of the north-eastern territories, and so, here we are - playing hide and seek all May and June long. "

She unconsciously made one more step back and felt her elbows spreading wider apart as if to block the visitors from the dugout entrance.

Just as well. Tomash went back to consult his companions.

"Branka, in a few days, we'll come back the same route and take you with us. Meanwhile... do you have any food storage left?"

"Nothing. Only some flour and berries."

She bit her tongue. What if they'd want to check?

"Oh well, never mind then."

Back to the Americans. She watched anxiously as they were nodding in mutual agreement. As Tomash came back, he brought the meat cans and a loaf of bread.

Branka swallowed her saliva and grasped the cans with her hands shaking slightly. For over half a year, she had fed on nothing but fish, stale crackers, and grain.

"I would have gladly given you more but we might need this food. I don't know how much longer it would take us, and you know, these fellows are not used to being hungry."

"Thank you, Tomash."

He nodded and smiled at her one last time.

She watched their wide uniformed backs.

They were leaving... Going away.

Once again, she was alone.

With the German soldier in her dugout...

Her throat tightened.

"Tomash!!"

He swiftly turned around. His broad-shouldered companions turned too.

In one scale, she had that skinny German fellow with his sharp eyes and bitter self-deprecating smile, in the other  - the silent reproach in _Václav's, Petra's , Jolana's, and Stepanka's_ dead faces...

"What's the matter, Branka?"

"No... nothing... Take care of yourself. Stay safe."

He must have sensed something because he jumped back into the ravine and took her by the hand.

"It will be fine, Branka, I promise you. There are no Wervolfs here.  Besides, if they hadn't found your lair before - which is really a miracle considering that there were hundreds of them lurking in the forest in May  - I bet they won't find it now, not in these few days." 

Little you know... She thought almost derisively. Unlike herself, Tomash apparently had not changed much.  Still talkative, careless, and boastful more than anything else. He could have easily taken Stepanka to Prague if he had not not too busy playing the underground resistance hero back in 1944...

"Give me a pistol and some cartridges," she sounded a bit more harsh than she wanted to, "Look, my pistol has something wrong with its trigger."

"No wonder. It is older than my granny, and probably rusty like her..."

"Thanks... Now off you go, my brave warrior."

"All will be well, Branka," he repeated somewhat embarrassedly, "I would have gone mad with worry if I knew there was any danger for you. I assure you there is none."

She stood quietly and watched them going. Looked down at Tomash's footprints next to the imprint of the German's foot.

So quiet she was that the birds started singing again, and the squirrel ran past her feet.

***

Branka slowly forced her way into the dark dugout  - the dead-heavy weight of remorse on her shoulders.  

The German was sitting on his bench. Peering unseeingly into the open book laying on his lap. His dirty clothes back on. His hair still wet.

He raised his head,

"So?"

She sat on her bedding and threw the tin can at him. 

"Nothing. Here is some extra ration for the wounded soldier."

He didn't as much as cast a single glance, and the can fell on the floor with a soft thud.

"Warum[4]?"

Just look at you acting cool. "You won't shoot me", "Warum?" and so on. All the while your lips are dry, and your eyes are so bright and anxious.

"The war is over. Your troops have surrendered and are long gone now. We are all supposed to live in peace. That's why."

He raised one brow.

" I see. So, with all the German troops gone and happily das Kriegsbeil begraben haben[5], what are all these American fellows doing here? They don't look too much like gamekeepers or woodcutters to me."

Something sank in her stomach. Could he overhear what Tomash had been talking about? Did he understand anything? Did he guess that other Germans were wandering in the forest somewhere nearby?

"They are patrolling the forest borders. Just in case. Not that it is really necessary. There are many other American and Russian troops out there. By the way, they might be coming back in a day or two."

Having said that, Branka promptly emptied the cartridge bag onto her lap. All the time watching him. Verstehest du[6]? It's no longer only two cartridges and a rusty pistol. I can well protect myself now if necessary.

He merely grinned,

"Time for some wolf hunting, right?"

***

They had not been talking about Tomash and the American soldiers ever since. Yet, she could sense some change in this German boy.

Each morning he was scrambling out of the ravine and pacing around trying not to lean on his crutch too much. Each time coming back drenched in sweat, his face pale and thin, and his lips bleeding as if he were biting them not to gasp in pain.

"Take a break, will you? Let the wounds heal. What's the hurry after all?"

He only shook his head.

"Where would you go anyway? You know that you won't run far. They'll find you. They are everywhere now."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't you see that it's better if they find me at a different place, far from here, so that no one blames you for hiding a German?"

He never touched the American food. No matter how many times she offered, his answer was always the same.

"No, it's for you. You've already wasted too much on me."

He hardly slept at night. She heard him turning from side to side and drinking water in big gulps.

Once, she could not stand it anymore. Wrapped in her blanket, Branka sat onto his bench.

"Does your knee hurt?"

"Es geht mir schon gut[7]."

"What then?"

"Nothing. Just that someone needs to keep watch at night, and you've already done your fair share."

***

Since then, Branka could not sleep either.

It was better for her during the day. She could fake her busyness. Doing the laundry. Searching for berries. Trying to better hide their lair in leaves and branches. Watching for any footprints in the mud by the spring.

In the night, all the boundaries between right and wrong blurring away, and her winter fears resurrecting, there was nothing left but to talk. 

She never asked him questions about the war. What for? Branka had heard enough of his nightmares to understand how the Wehrmacht soldier would have dealt with the Czech partisan girl in different circumstances.

The German asked no questions whatsoever.

These sleepless nights could have been very unsettling if it were not for him knowing so many interesting things - out of that old book and many other books. Back in Germany, he used to have the whole bookcase and the wall shelves full of them. She could hardly believe that. Even her school teacher had less textbooks, and back at the orphanage, they went along with the Bible only.

Somehow, they ended up with the same every night ritual. Him telling the stories of which she could never tell if they were true or fairy tales. Her listening.

If she only dared she would have shared with him the only story she knew how to tell. The tale of her own.

***

Once upon a time, there lived a girl. At first, some of the adults called her Goldberry because of her hair. Children called her Judas for the very same reason, and the name somehow stuck well into her adulthood. Together with these children, she lived amidst the grey bed-covers and ill-mended clothes in the small house that had always smelt of Sauerkraut. All children in that house - but her - were the same in looks and names (they had four Brankas, three Peters, and six Tomashes), only their nicknames were different. All the adults were divided into two categories - "ours" (those were the cooks, nurses, care-takers, and teachers) and "visitors". For some lucky children, the "visitors" became "mommy" and "daddy", even though such words were usually a taboo in that grey small house. It appears that children were not all the same and equal after all.

Little Judas was lucky as well. The adults thought it was because she was such a sweet quiet darling. Children thought it was because of her hair.

 Her new "mommy" took Judas far away from the grey house and brought her to the beautiful kingdom where all people were different in appearance, and yet, somehow seemed equal - much like children at her old place. In this kingdom, the children of Jews went to school together with the children of Czechs; and Germans were their next-door neighbors and shopkeepers who sold Sauerbraten and the tastiest Apfelstrudel ever. Everyone easily mixed Czech and German in their everyday talk. Judas learnt German faster and better than any other kid at her new school. To tell the truth, she hardly even needed to learn it. So many words were already familiar - as if she had heard them somewhere, at a different time in a different place.

Most importantly though, there was the prince in that kingdom who also happened to be Judas's new mommy's eldest son. He was the only one who kept calling the little girl Goldberry.  Yet, when the time came, the Czech prince found himself a dark-haired princess.

Then, the kingdom had fallen.

The beautiful dark-haired princess had to go into hiding, and the prince together with his mother were doing their best to protect her.

Not that it helped really.

After the princess was no more, the prince got so desperate that there were only two ways for him - to die or fight for his kingdom. He chose the second way, but he still was dead inside, and to save him from this worst kind of death, Judas decided to become the new princess.

Only they did not have much time left.

The peaceful shopkeepers were no longer so peaceful.

People suddenly realized that they were not so equal after all. Who they were no longer depended on them but on their parents and the parents of their parents.

Everything changed. And where was Judas's place among these new ranks? She never knew her real parents, so how could she tell where she belonged?

***

The Wervolfs came down early in the morning. The sun had not yet risen, and the sky was dimly grey in between the fir braches.

The birds were still quiet, but one gave a start and twittered a long shrill note.

Branka took hold of the pistol.

"Gib mir[8]."

No, she could not make herself pull the trigger. She only gasped when this seemingly weak German boy wrested the pistol out of her hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Sei ruhig[9]!"

His eyes were bright and cold.

The scum...

They both heard the heavy footsteps at the same time.

"Halt. Ich werde schiessen[10]."

The German calmly put on his wrinkled blood-stained uniform jacket that had served him as a mattress and went to greet his mates outside.

"Hör auf."

"Wer bist du, Mensch[11]?"

"Unteroffizier Winter. Waffe weg[12]."

"Jawohl."

 She froze. Just like that other time - with Petra and Václav. What else was there for her to do but to cower in the corner with the broken penknife clasped in her sweaty fist as her only defense?

There were two of them. Two middle-aged men. One of them limping. Two dirty bearded faces. They carried in the stale smell of sweat, dried mud, and tiredness.

They wearily settled down by the entrance. The questions and answers were streaming out of their thirsty dry-lipped mouths one after another.

"What unit are you from, Herr Unteroffizier?"

"Did you meet anyone else of our unit?"

"Is it far from here to the Austrian border?"

"We've barely made it. The Russians've cornered everyone..."

"Verdammte[13]... Hey, who's this?"

Unteroffizier Winter - his face expression smooth and aloof - turned swiftly and ordered drily,

"Get something to eat."

"Die Weiben[14]... The meat cans... Mensch! You definitely had a better time than us."

"I've almost forgotten what a female looks like."

The man's sweaty palm covering her shoulder. The tobacco-yellowish fingertips.

"Let her be. Where are the others?"

"I just told you, Herr Unteroffizier, they've cornered whoever was left of our unit. Only Franz and me got out safe and sound.  We've been wandering in circles since then. Lost our way. No food. Nothing to smoke."

"What about you, Unteroffizier Winter? How come you are on your own?"

"Why are you even asking? Can't you see for yourself? He's got this whole damned underground hotel room and the girl. What does he care for others dying in their own s***? Right, Herr Unteroffizier?"

 "Shut up and eat. It's up to me to ask questions."

"Alles gut, Unteroffizier Winter, alles gut. Hold your tongue, Franz. Don't you see? Herr Unteroffizier was wounded. Had a good luck of finding this nice place and this nice girl. Would you blame him for trying to get a little bit more comfortable in all this hell? What would you yourself have done at his place?"

"Right."

Both soldiers fell silent chewing on the meat. Their eyes darting from side to side as if they were foxes on the run.

"I wish I had something to smoke!"

"You bet..."

It's a pity all those greenhorn lads didn't make it."

"Have you seen what's going on in the cities, Winter? They take everyone - women and children alike - and shoot them down there by the main road. I saw them myself. The blood streaming down the hill as if it were raining."  

"Damned Czechs."

"The Russians are no better."

"We'll stay here for a day or two and then, make our way to the border, if it's okay with you, Herr Unteroffizier?"

She wanted to slip out unnoticed but Franz - the one who was taller and stronger - got hold of her elbow.

"Wo gehst du, Liebchen[15]?"

"T...to get some water."

"I told you to let her be," Friedhelm's voice was calm and even as usual.

"What's the matter with you, Winter?  She is a Czech, isn't she? Haven't you seen what they've done to our women?"

"That won't do, Herr Unteroffizier. That won't do at all. You've already made it out with her, haven't you? Why do you mind sharing? Hey, you, where do you think you are going?!"

As the German soldier hit her hard across the face, everything swam in front of her. The smell of his cheap tobacco. The sickly odor of his unwashed body.

"Take it easy, Franz. Alles ist gut, Herr Unteroffizier. Unlike those bastards, we are civilized people, aren't we, Franz? We won't harm the girl if she is good to us."

"Let me go!.."

He pinned her down. His fingers in her hair; his knee on her stomach.

Aah... she could hardly breathe...

The sound of the shot made her ears ring.

"Unteroff.. Scheisser[16]!"

Wheezing. Gurgling. Still clutching at her.

Something micaceous - something pinkish-white and red - splashed into her face.

Her ears were still ringing. Her stomach hurt so much she could not stand straight.

"Branka, steh auf, hörst du mich oder[17]?"

Friedhelm... Frowning. His eyes narrowed as if he were looking at the bright sun. 

"Las mich... las mich, du[18].."

She lashed out at him and then immediately got sick all over his shirt.

She heard him cursing quietly and - in between the bouts - managed to dig her nails into his cheek.

He pushed her away and - for the lack of water  - splashed the contents of the soup bowl - the breakfast leftovers - into her face.

"Oh right, why don't you kill me as well?"

"Doofkopf...[19]"

He pressed his fingers hard against the bleeding scratch.

She heard his raspy breathing and saw the spots of red on his shirt and trousers.

Suddenly, he staggered and -  down on all fours - started crawling towards the exit.

She threw herself against him.

"Give me my gun, you, bastard! I'll pay you back - I swear! Tomash will come back, and they'll shoot you, yes, they will!"

"Just look at you and your brave patrol men. Where are they, your defenders, huh? Why did they leave you here? Why didn't they hurry back to save your ass?"

He did not struggle. He lay flat on the ground and closed his eyes.

"Mind you don't strangle me. Give me a bit of a break. The fellow hit me really hard."

She sat next to him.

There it was - his Adam's apple twitching right by her hand - while the man was trying to suppress his cough.

His eyes still closed, he gasped,

"Please stay on the watch, will you? In case someone comes."

"I thought there were only two of them, weren't they?"

"Too bad," he said not listening to her, "I wanted to take them down quietly. We've raised hell with all this shooting. Why did you decide to run away? Didn't I tell you to stay put?"

"How could I know that you were on my side? You took away my pistol."

"Yes, that's right, keep on with that. Sniveling, blaming me, and carrying this pistol around as if it were a toy... If I cared to, I could have taken it and shot you down long ago."

She could not stop trembling and felt her fingers becoming icy-cold.

"It's so unfair. I didn't ask for this. I am not a man after all. Not a soldier. All I want is to survive and go on living, do you hear me? I just want to live!!"

Somehow, her head was now resting against his shoulder, and her nose was pressed against his collarbone. She could feel the salty warmth of his skin.

"Now, that will do, Branka. That's okay."

The pistol still clasped in his hand, he awkwardly patted her back.

"Get up, at a girl. Now, take this bucket and bring me some water. Better still, take two buckets. I'll clean up this mess."

"I'll help you."

"No, off you go, and remember to keep an eye out for any trouble."

***

No, she was not on her guard. She neither listened to the birds, nor to the rustling of the bushes.

Instead, she kneeled by the spring and dig her nails into the soft watery mud. All the time sobbing, hiccupping, and whispering,

"Forgive me, Stepanka, but I cannot stay here anymore. No, I won't..."

When she finally came back - her bucket left forgotten by the spring - there was no sight of the two Wervolfs in their dugout.

She did not have the nerve to ask the German where he had buried the bodies. Probably, somewhere close by - in the bushes - and not deep enough. They would be an easy prey for the animals, just like Stepanka had been in the end of the last fall when the soil had been too frozen to dig a deep grave...

***

The rain had been coming down in sheets since the late afternoon. The ground by the entrance soaked in all the water and blood of the German soldiers.

Branka was laying curled under her two blankets.

This odor of the strangers' unwashed bodies would not go away.

"You have to go," she said again, "Tomash and the Americans will be back in a couple of days. I don't want them to get at you."

"Let's change the topic," he interrupted and frowned.

She saw that he too was cold. Yet, he was stubbornly sitting by the entrance - with her pistol in his pocket, and the German rifle on his lap - watching out for something or someone to find their way through the rain and fog.

"First, promise me that you will leave."

He answered half-heartedly,

"Let's wait out the rain; then, I'll see you off to the village. If I am lucky, I might be able to slip away after."

"Are you out of your mind?... Haven't you heard what that man - Franz - was talking about? Haven't you heard what they do with such as you?.."

He smiled absent-mindedly,

"Aber clar[20]. An eye for an eye. What did he expect? A suite chamber and three-dish-dinner in the Russian or Czech prison?"

and then, immediately after,

"I think you had way too many guests for these past few days. Mind you, if Franz and his companion had been real soldiers, we wouldn't have been in luck."

"What do you mean? Who were them if not soldiers?"

He shrugged. The frown on his brow deepened.

"Some desperate Volksdeutcher . No training. No guts."

She could not keep the irony out of her voice.

"So, how was that for you? Killing off your own people? The truth hurts, doesn't it?"

His eyes were bright and cold yet again.

"My people... Your people... Don't see much of a difference."

"Don't you? Why then waste your time on saving me?"

He shook his head. Tired. Gray-faced.

"Better you live than me, oder?"

***

Something sticky, slimy, and dark was falling onto her face. The clods of the water-sodden earth... Covering her. Burying her alive. She could not shake them off. She could not move...

She woke up - reaching out blindly...

It was very dark and quiet. All she could hear was the raindrops falling onto the ground.

Friedhelm... For a moment only, she thought he was gone... but no, there he was, the dark shape crouching by the entrance.

She approached him and touched his shoulder.

He was taking the cartridges out and putting them back in. Unloading and loading the rifle.  By feel only. Using his undamaged hand. Cursing quietly.

He sighed in mock frustration.

"This isn't working out. If only I still had my forefinger intact."

"You'll learn."

"Take your pistol. I know what you came after," she felt him grinning, "Let's be a team. You'll be loading arms and I'll be shooting. The perfect model of the post-war Czech-German  partnership."

"Friedhelm..."

"That was only a joke. Now, you have to abide to the rules of etiquette and laugh even if you don't feel like it."

"No, you just don't understand..."

He turned. She could not see his face in the dark, so she had to touch it.

Still only the bristle rather than a beard even after a month and a half. Dry cracked lips. The unfamiliar taste of his saliva.

She ran her fingers through the longish hair on the back of his nape.

He still did not as much as move. If it were not for his heart racing under her hand...

Last time, you had been so much braver.

She reached out for his hand and placed it on her body. Ouch... so cold it was she had to bite on her lip not to whimper.

"What? Are we to sit here in the rain?"

As she crawled back under the blankets, he followed her. His knee accidentally collided with her bruised stomach.

"Ouch... _Pane Bože_[21]..."

"Entschuldigst[22]."

His grip on her was so tight she could barely breathe. His face against her collarbone. Reaching down. His hand tangled in the folds of her dress.

She had to help him out. Untying the string on his trousers. Directing. Holding on...

She had a passing thought  that her first time with Václav had been so different - and then, the thought was gone.

Václav was no more. This other man by her side was alive and real. His warmth against hers. The jolt through his body into hers.

Only a few more times, and then, he sucked in air through his teeth and fell still.

She could not even tell if she herself had felt anything.

His raspy breathing.

He tried to move away but she held onto him.

Her fingers down his spine - under his shirt - across the ribs.

"Lásko, _zlatíčko_[23]..."

He raised up his head,

"Was? Hast du etwas gesagt[24]?"

She bit her lip. The German language grated on her ear.

While they were busy fumbling with their clothes and drinking in each other's need, she had almost forgotten what  divided them.

Friedhelm must have felt something for, without saying a word, he sat up straight and reached for his trousers. 

Yet, he had never hurt her. Why then hold him responsible for what the others did?

That soft glowing warmth again in all of her body.

She went after him. Felt his narrow rigid shoulders. In the dark, she wanted to kiss his brow but missed, and his eyelashes flattered under her lips .

"Wo gehst du denn[25]?"

Still silent.

"Bist du immer so schweigsam nach dem...[26]?"

"Vielleicht. Weiss noch nicht[27]."

Something rustled over their heads. They barely had time to draw back when the downpour finally soaked through the dugout's surface, and the stream of cold water trickled onto their bedding.

Hastily... hands intertwining... hissing and shivering... hampering each other's moves...bursting with laughter without  any particular reason at all... First, the fir branches; then, his camouflage jacket...

Their heads under the blankets, and their bare feet dangling.  Plop! Plop! - the raindrops hammering away on their cover.

"Did you mention something about the perfect model of the Czech-German partnership?"

***

"Do you mind if I take a nap now? Wake me up if this Noah's boat starts to sink."

His deep raspy breathing.

To make him more comfortable, she lay his head on her shoulder.

"How do we get that damned bullet out of your chest?"

His hair tickling her nose.

Even in his sleep, he was still pressing against her.

How would she ever be able to go back to her home?

What awaits for her there?

The ash and ruins of her house?

Or worse, those empty rooms. The broken windows. The photos on the dusty walls. The ever silent reproach in their eyes. Why didn't you save our child? Why did you quail?  Why couldn't you be brave? Oh you, the cuckoo in our nest...

Fear? The fear that made her blood curl, and her palms sweaty? The cellar where the arms had once been hidden, and where she had once been waiting for Václav with the German soldiers in the ambush.

And the worst of all  -  the looks of those people who had survived.

***

The dawn was pearly grey. The puddles, the mud, and the drizzle...

Friedhelm crawled back inside and shivered,

"If the rain lasts, old Franz is bound to float down to the creek."

"Hold your tongue..."

He smiled and pulled down her blanket.

"Du bist schön[28]."

Schön. Yeah, sure. She-cat. Protruding ribs. Straw-like hair. The dirt under her fingernails.

He could care less. Running his hand down her stomach. His eyes bright and shining as if he were a boy who had just gotten his dream toy for Christmas.

So warm. So... She could not help but press against him... reaching out... yes, do hold me tight.. yes, just like that... yes...

***

"Friedhelm, where would you go after you take me to my place? "

"Don't know yet... I'll have to find the rest of our troops."

Wrapping herself into the blanket,  she sprang to her feet, and her head hit the ceiling.

"The war is over! They will take you all down one by one."

"We'll see about that."

"What? You can't possibly believe you might win!"

His eyes were downcast. Resting in his open palm were her cartridges.

"No, I don't think that's possible."

"Why then?"

"What else is left for me?"

The chill went down her spine.

"Do you still want to die?"

"No one ever wants to die, do they?"

He still did not lift his eyes.

She suddenly wanted to shake or even slap him.

"Oh you, the hypocrite... You told me about these boys - Hitlerjugend who were foolish enough to fight for their Vaterland. You are no better than them.  You, wretched Wehrmacht hero!"

He grinned, but his face was pale and wasted.

"Take a good look at me. Is that how heroes look like?"

"Then, what? What? Tell me the truth... admit that  simply you like it. You are just like all the rest of them. You like tearing people's throats out and choking on their blood."

"You forgot that we also eat babies alive. Om-nom-nom. So much better than these American delicatessen your friend had kindly left for you."

"Then, why do you want to join the army again? Please tell me for I am apparently too shallow to understand your motives. "

He shrugged his shoulders and said lightly,

"What difference does it make? Is there any other alternative for me?"

She pushed him away from herself.

"Then... you know what? You are worse than these soldiers who had tried to rape me. You have no heart at all. Have you ever thought about anyone but yourself? Have you thought about your mother?"

"She is probably already over her mourning by now."

"Over her mourning? You told me that your brother was in the penal battalion. Why are you so sure he had survived the mess of the last months? You mother might be mourning not one but two of her sons now. What is her guilt towards you?"

He kept silent. Only his fingers tightened around the cartridges.

"What? You haven't got a leg to stand on, have you?  Have you even thought about me? I've been taking care of you for almost two months, and for all my trouble, I have to watch Tomash shooting you? If you don't give a damn about yourself, then, have some decency to think about other people!"

All the veins were suddenly visible on his temples and neck.

"Halt's Maul! Las mich doch mal![29]" and his voice cracked, "I get it. I am a scum. I was a scum four years ago when I did not want to shoot other soldiers down. I was a scum later because I became too good at shooting. I was a scum when I wanted to be done and over with all of this, and now, when I decided to perform my duties till the end... guess what? I am still a scum. And you know what? I don't even care anymore. Couldn't you all just leave me alone?"

***

The whole long day she had been packing. Their  meager food supplies. The wooden spoons and blankets. She found the dry spot for other belongings and covered them with fir branches. For some reason, even though she had no intention of ever coming back, she did not want them to rot. Perhaps, someone else might still need them. Some poor fellow on the run from the war and in the war with himself.  

They did not talk to one another.

He was still guarding the entrance. Still nursing the rifle.  

She felt sorry for him, and yet, she knew that he was out of her reach now. If she had even tried to approach him, he would have been the first to snap or do something stupid...

He came at night as she lay sleepless in her cold bed.

Reaching out for her as a blind man might. His hands back on her body. Their breathing mixed.

"Friedhelm, wait. I want to ask something of you..."

He nodded his head indefinitely and pulled off her shirt.

"No, wait... Listen to me... Let's leave together tomorrow. For good. Take me to Berlin, will you?"

He drew back. His shoulders stiffened.

"Echt?[30]"

"Don't laugh at me."

He waved her off.

"What else is left for me but laughing?"

"No, listen to me, please. I will never go back. I never told no one but Václav died because of me, and I did not even manage to save his daughter."

He turned swiftly.

"His daughter? Not yours? I thought that..."

"I was always only his little sister. He was older. He had his Jolana.... "

_Jolana... Her dark ringlets, her teasing smile, and springy footsteps. Jolana, the local beauty.  Jolana, the bright star of their village. Men were turning around to look at her whenever she strode off with Václav down the main road. Václav himself couldn't keep his eyes off his wife. He had never looked at Branka like that._

_Jolana. Her dark ringlets drenched in blood. The bruises on her face. Her torn dress and scratched knees as the soldiers dragged her along to the wagon._

_"Verdammte Jude!"_

_Václav's face growing old and dark._

"After they had taken her, Václav went in hiding to join other partisans. I stayed with his mother Petra and his little daughter. We were hiding her. He visited us once a month in the nighttime."

_And then - just like a fire burn - just like a knife wound - the sharp and acute pain of her triumph: 'He is mine now! Forever and ever.'_

"I would have gone to the forest too, but Petra was very ill. I couldn't leave her. And Stepanka... she was still a toddler. She needed her milk and  other things that I could obtain only in the town..."

Friedhelm was watching her thoughtfully. Reading her as he had been reading off his book. His voice was unusually soft.

"Is that why you stayed here in the forest? All on your own?"

She nodded.

"You are not to blame, Branka. He decided to join the partisans, so, he knew what he was in for."

There was no blame on Judas either. Some even say he loved Christ more than other disciples.

"No, you don't understand... listen to me... I'll tell you everything... The soldiers... they tracked everyone down because of me. Last summer they came to our place. They said they will burn the house down - and us together with our house - if we don't tell them where the partisans were hiding.  Petra didn't say a word until the very end, and I... I was scared out of my wits.  So scared that I told them everything. How many people were in Václav's unit, whose sons and husbands they were, when they used to come down from the forest... Everything... Anything just for them to let me and Stepanka go... What a fool... They did let us go after all. They knew Václav would come back for his daughter if he knew she was still alive, and that was why they needed me for. They got everyone, and I saw what they did to them... to the partisans..."

Friedhelm did not look away. His stare was steady, calmly inquisitive, and... full of understanding.

"Believe me it still does not matter. They would have found him out regardless. Then, they would have shot you down as his accomplice if you had refused to talk."

"All women in the village knew. Their brothers and husbands were in the forest together with Václav. Yet, no one said a single word."

He smiled mirthlessly,

"How can you be so sure of that? I know the way they track people down. They wouldn't have come to burn down your house unless someone had already ratted you out."

"They were burning the soles of Petra's feet. Her heart was failing her, but she still didn't say anything ... It was me. Me alone."

He frowned. His voice was hard.

"I saw people like her. They never believe any harm can come to them. You can put a noose around their neck, and they will still believe in mercy." Suddenly, he said in Russian, "Солдатик, пожалей ради детей[31]."

"And you? What did you do?" She had already known his answer before he even uttered a word.

"I did what I was told to do by my superiors," he looked at her defiantly, "What? Do you still want to follow me all the way to Berlin?"

She narrowed her eyes and threw his own words of yesterday back at him,

"What else is left for me?"

 

[1] This is the poem "Ernste Stunde" by Rainer Maria Rilke. You can find the English translation here: <http://text.chrisrusak.com/ernste-stunde/>

[2] Is it really you? (Czech)

[3] How come you are here?

[4] Why? (German)

[5] Bury the hatchet (German)

[6] Do you understand?

[7] It's okay.

[8] Give it to me.

[9] Stay quiet!

[10] Stop. I am going to shoot.

[11] Who are you man?

[12] Drop your guns.

[13] Damn it

[14] These women...

[15] Where are you going, love?

[16] Bastard

[17] Stand up, do you hear me?

[18] Leave me alone, you...

[19] Stupid

[20] This is obvious.

[21] My God (Czech)

[22] Sorry (German)

[23] Darling, honey (Czech)

[24] What? Did you say anything? (German)

[25] Where are you going?

[26] Are you always so quiet after..?

[27] Maybe. I don't know yet.

[28] You are beautiful.

[29] Shut up. Leave me alone.

[30] Seriously?

[31] Soldier, have mercy on us... Have mercy for our children (Russian)


	3. Heimat

**Thank you to Vanus94 and crimsondust. Your comments have been really encouraging and made me move on! Thank you to everyone else who is reading this story. Always happy to hear what you guys think.**

 

**The author's note**

Even though to the best of my knowledge, it does not say anywhere in the series what part of Berlin the events take place in, there is that one scene in the end of the third episode: when Victor is walking out of his old apartment towards Greta's place, he crosses the passage to Luisenstraße which is in East Berlin. Considering that they have all grown up in the same neighborhood, I think it is safe to assume that the Winters' apartment is not that far away in the Mitte district.

So, yes, East Berlin it is in this story. Get ready for some more language mash-up.

**Brief historical background**

In the first post-war years, with most of the buildings bombed, often several families of Berliners had to share the same apartment. There was the limit on the use of electricity, and the hot water was on and off.

With the inflation rate and the new money system not well-established yet,  people lived off the food ration cards and bartending at the black markets (in East Berlin, it was mainly Alexanderplatz). In order to get a food ration card, one needed to be working on a valid work permit. To obtain the work permit, people (former soldiers including) had to register with the police first. This system was giving the officials a ground for casual police raids (in order to get hold of the unemployed and non-registered citizens) and an additional opportunity to track down some minor war criminals.

Additional rules included the interzone pass; the 131-question Fragebogen (the questionnaire used in the American zone to find out those who were politically involved with the Nazis); and later on, the compulsory viewing of the documentary films of liberated concentration camps. Those who disobeyed the new rules could lose their work permits and food ration cards.

  **Some terms in this chapter**

Entlassungsschein - the discharge certificate

Soldbuch - the paybook (the record of service and identification)

Wehrersatzdienstelle - the recruiting station where the military records were kept

Wehrpass - the soldier's record book which is given to the relatives in case of the soldier's death

 

**January 1946**

The dusk had settled over the city since early morning. The winter wind blew into and - without any hindrance - searched through the abandoned apartments with the dark holes in the places where the windows and doors had once been. The frost glimmered on the dilapidated blackened walls. The blizzard danced over the lowered heads of the hunched passers-by.

At the first glance, the two young men who had come down from Schlesischer Bahnhof were not much different from everyone else.

There were so many of them coming to the city during these past few months. Some were returning home, others were running away and hoping to find a shelter.

The soldiers who had managed to avoid the prisons and camps.

The refugees from the eastern territories.

Standing by the ruins of their old apartments and houses.

Crowding by the lists of the missing persons or in the lines for the food rations.

Wandering homeless and freezing to their death on the streets.

Their off-size well-worn and torn clothes. Their tired shuffling footsteps.

The first man confidently led the way through the narrow streets filled with rubble and bordered by the black rusty carcasses of the bombed buildings. The man was limping slightly, and from time to time, he had to stop to wait out a fit of hacking cough.  

If one were to look closer at his frail companion, they would have noticed the delicate feminine features well-concealed behind the torn shawl and baggy men's clothes.

The woman spoke with a very slight Slavic accent. The man was undoubtedly a Berliner.

It was a bit unusual to see a German man and a Czech woman together, and yet, this couple stood no comparison to the growing numbers of Russian men and German girls that had been getting along all this time.

The post-war Berliners had long since broken their habit of being surprised at or perturbed by anything save the ever-increasing food prices.

***

When many years later Branka would try to remember the details of their long journey to Berlin, they would only come back to her in a series of random flashes.

__________________________

One of their last days in Böhmerwald... They could not lit up a fire at night since the patrol troops were too close. Laying back to back. Her sleeping. Him keeping a watch. Some rustle had jolted her out of her deep sleep. She opened her eyes and saw the two pairs of flickering-white spots in the dark. So close. So... She knew then. Last fall, she had seen them - for days and nights not being able to go out of her dugout. Listening to them stirring by Stepanka's grave.

"Friedhelm..."

His warm hand on her shoulder.

"Hab keine Angst[1].They won't dare out unless you let them feel your fear."

"I am not afraid..."

'...because I am with you,' she wanted to add.

The white spots flickered one more time and then disappeared.

____________________________

Crossing the border. Travelling at nights. Hiding in the ditches or abandoned farms in the daytime. Sleeping in the overcrowded barns, inside the bombed railway stations or old churches - together with other refugees from the Sudetenland or soldiers-fugitives.

The wagons full of German women, children, and olders from the Sudetenland heading off to the Eastern Germany. Their wasted faces and cracked lips. The patches of the scorching-white sun shining on the soldiers' rifles. The driedßup wells and creeks.

At nights, other ghostlike people made their sad appearance and crawled along the roads. The many faceless faces. The many nameless names. The snippets of hurried whispers.

"Where are you from? Did you happen to know the Reinhardts? It's my sister's family. The last time I heard from them, she'd just had her third baby in March."

"Have you heard about Borislavka? No one has survived. We barely made it - with only this suitcase..."

"Ilse was waiting until the last. They came at dawn and took her together with her husband and brothers. They only gave them ten minutes to pack."

"It's no use to go back to Austria. The people who finally get to the border are stuck. Austria won't take them in, and the Czechoslovakian troops want them out. And mind you, no one is eager to share food with them either."

"They are not going to put me on their train, I tell you. Not me. Sag mir[2], why is it that there are mostly women and kids on these trains? I tell you, they send the men straight to the death camps."

"That's where you are mistaken. Unlike some of ours, their labor camps are just what it says - work camps. For real."

"...to clean out the country of Germans, and everyone must help in the cleansing... so he said, meine Damen und Herren... That, and old Churchill's blessing of the territorial changes. We'll yet see this land divided into fine thin slices just like an Apfelstrudel."

"They told us to wear signs on our clothes. A black N on the white."  

"Mutti, wo ist Vatti[3]? Did the soldiers paint his face red like they did with onkel Peter?"

If Branka were to close her eyes and forget that she was listening to German rather than Czech, it could well be early 1940s all over again. She could see Petra and Václav holding a hurried council in the blackout kitchen late at night, while Jolana was crying in the basement. Not because both of her parents had just been taken to the Theresienstadt camp, or she had to go into hiding but because her breast milk had gone "sour", and Stepanka was having cramps.

____________________________

At first, when they had just only crossed the forest area, she was even glad.

The uniforms of the Russians and the allies. The black shawls and crying girls in their dresses torn, and blood on the hem of their skirts. Screams, curses, and orders in different languages.  Let them have a taste of it!

It was because of them that Václav had been buried in a common grave, and no one was there to visit him anymore.

They had come to other people's lands first.

They had made their own bed, so now they could lie in it for all she cared.

Yet, who were them?

The women - their faces prematurely lined and their eyes red - in whose houses and barns Friedhelm and herself had taken up the temporary lodgings?

The mumbling toothless old men?

The prisoners of war - those youngsters of no more than twenty?

Where were them, her enemies?

Where were the shining boots and Totenkopfs?

Where had they hidden themselves?

Her expectations were deceived.

She had come to Germany - her teeth gritted and her heart clenched - ready to hate and detest them.

It was easier that way.

Here, she wouldn't be tortured by the gnawing feeling of guilt.

Here, everyone was equally guilty.

The former Wehrmacht soldier and the former wife who had betrayed her husband were no better or worse than the others.

So, in the end, it turned out that there was no one to hate or blame.

Her hate had burnt out over these last months.

She was left with this thin blue-eyed man who would never complain of pain - would never say a word - and who, nevertheless, was not able to sleep at night choking with cough or burning with fever. It was clear to her that he needed a doctor. A surgeon, perhaps. He needed a warm bed and medicines.

She tried not to think about her own needs. She cut her hair short early in their journey. There was nowhere to wash herself, no extra clothing, and once they had run out of their meager savings, almost no food save the crop residues damaged by the military troops.

_________________________

Caught between a rock and a hard place.

Somehow she had to keep Friedhelm away from the sharp-eyed patrolmen who had been taking in the officers and other higher military ranks on the slightest suspicion. Not to mention those men who had been detained for the construction work for an indefinite amount of time.

Somehow Friedhelm had to keep her away from the eyes of the soldiers who had been roaming through the villages. With time, she learned to tell the difference between those who simply craved for some entertainment after months of marching and shooting, and those who had bitter lines around their mouths, and whose stare sometimes grew vacant. The latter were the most dangerous. Many of them had left behind the ashes of their homes and graves of their relatives. It was not the desire for pleasure or torture that led them. It was the cold indifference that made them shut their eyes to any pleads for mercy. She would have never admitted even to herself that Friedhelm's face expression sometimes reminded her of these men.

__________________________

Depending on who they were dealing with - the Russian soldiers at the outposts, their fellow refugees, or the locals - they had a story planned out.

Sometimes the Czech woman and her younger brother were looking for her husband who had been fighting in Germany together with the allies and had been missing since the last spring. To make her story more persuasive, she always listed Tomash and all his Prague friends - journalists, writers, and politicians - in hopes that one of the names would ring a bell.

The men were shaking their heads sympathetically.

"Isn't that Tomash a lucky fellow? I wish моя баба[4] did half as much for me."

"The younger brother" seemed shy and unsociable. He usually spoke only a few words in response to anyone's questions so that that they wouldn't notice that his accent had nothing to do with Czech. He was slowing down his step whenever they were being watched, so that no one would see him limping. He always held his right hand away from other people's eyes.

Sometimes, it was the two brothers-survivors who were making their way back from the Theresienstadt camp. That was when the names of all Jolana's family members came in including her wealthy grand-uncle who used to have some business industry in Leipzig long before the war.  

Sometimes, they became the husband and wife from the Sudetenland who had to abandon their house and all belongings as soon as the local population had risen against the ethnic Germans.

__________________________

The military outpost. One of the many. That man in the group of refugees who kept glancing at Friedhelm and his right hand. She knew instantly he would tell on them and late in the evening  - mustering bits and pieces of Russian she had learnt from Friedhelm - went to the one she had identified as the officer in change.

"Have you heard about Lidice[5]?"

Of course, they did.

"Ask that человек by the fire... Он вам не скажет, but he was one of the SD [6]."

Later, safe in the nearby grove, she watched from afar the soldiers snatching the man. If he could not speak Russian - which was very likely - he was probably doomed.

"What did you tell them?"

"None of your business," and - suddenly overcome by the familiar gnawing feeling - she snapped, "Would you prefer to be in his place?"

Did she just see him flinch? His voice was even though.

"I can deal with one more man on my conscience. I'm more concerned about you."

____________________________

The cellar at the old farm. The laughter of the soldiers partying all night through at the upper floor. The screams of women who had been discovered in their hideaway behind the barns and were now chased around the yard. Not unlike those two skinny flustered  hens that had been captured earlier in the day. The fire reflected in Friedhelm's eyes, and his hand was clasping the pocket knife - the only weapon they could safely keep.

His quiet voice,

"Go now, while they are not yet through with the game. I'll watch your back. Once you get to the second fork, wait for me nearby in the ditch. I'll come once they cool down and get to sleep, or sooner, if we are lucky."

"No...let's go together."

"I'm not the one they are after. Besides, I'll only hold you back now."

The dirty bandages on his swollen knee.

________________________ 

The thick mud on the lonely country road. The rain bucketing down. The army mail truck stuck knee-deep and a desperate soldier spewing Russian profanities.  

The truck finally started up after over an hour of pushing, and falling facedown into the slush, and pushing again. The middle-aged soldier was red in face. The veins bulging on his forehead, the graying whiskers, and unexpectedly good-humored tired grey eyes.

It was warm inside the cabin, and only Friedhelm's elbow kept Branka from nodding off. In her broken Russian, she was telling the man yet another tale, and he tried answering back in a mixture of broken Czech and German.  

He was from the country side, he said. A tractor-driver and mechanic. Мастер на все руки[7]. The villagers didn't want to let him go. What would happen to all the seeding machines at their kolkhoz[8]? His wife was wailing and throwing herself at his feet. She wanted to throw herself under the wheels of the military truck that had arrived for the recruits but his son and the neighbors held her back.

Twice wounded. Three medals. Went as far as Berlin. Wanted to come back after the war was over but received the news from the fellow countryman. His son had died in 1943 when their village had been under the Germans, but his wife had managed so well that there was another child - also a boy - now at his hut. The man was trying all possible ways to get shot during those last days in Berlin. When it did not work, he reckoned he might as well live on his own, and stayed a postman in the army.

"I don't bear no grudge against her or her Fritz. All the Fritzs've paid for it, and you bet, they'll pay more. I just don't want any of his leftovers, that's it. How can I live with her and her brat while my very own boy is no more?"  

Then, the soldier switched seats with Friedhelm and promptly fell asleep. She was listening to him snoring,  the engine rumbling, and the raindrops drumming, when some instinct made her glance at Friedhelm. His undamaged hand rested on the steering wheel, but his eyes were not watching the road...

It was only a glimpse of a moment. The soldier - foolish, careless, or simply dead tired of all these years of fighting and dreaming of his house, his woman, and his child only to discover the enemies had rummaged through what he had held as his most sacred  - snoring with his mouth wide-open and his moustaches yellowed with tobacco. They could have easily taken his truck, his gasoline, his food ration, and his life.

No.

She did not say a word. She only moved forward. Her soft body forced in between the two men. So different, and yet similar in that both had been enemies without even knowing each other. Both had tried to escape and leave their four-year-old heavy load behind. Neither gave a second thought to the women (one - to his mother, and another - to his wife) who had been left to reap the fruits of the feud.

______________________________

Their stories were thin-veiled. Their escape was narrow. It was the combination of the soldiers' lenience, the locals' indifference, and the sheer luck rather than any ingenuity that had eventually led them - without money or food - through the forest area, all the military outposts, and the whole country done to the wide.

All the way to Berlin that looked nothing like its pre-war postcard version.

Branka was used to the sight of burnt and abandoned villages but never before had she seen the post-war city ruins. One of the fellow refugees had told her about Prague bombed back in February. Now Berlin, this alien capital of the enemy country - dusky and devoid of all colors, - somehow merged in her conscience with desecrated Zlatá  _Praha_[9] _of her homeland._

***

They reached their destination in the dusk.

Even though Friedhelm knew the surroundings through and through, they had to circle around. The familiar streets and lanes were no more.

The alleys turned into nowhere. The pile of stones or rusty iron beams shot up into the grey sky at the place where a store or a school had once stood.

Here are there, they were coming across the posters and signs in Russian and English.

The business-like soldiers equipped with some bundles were rushing in and out of the few still inhabited buildings. Sometimes, they could hear the music and whoops of laughter, but for the most part, the city looked empty and dark.

In secret, Branka thought they had likely made all this journey in vain. There might be no home anymore or relatives who had survived the bombing.

They should have stayed at that little half-demolished farm where they had already spent more than three weeks in November because Friedhelm's knee had swollen so badly he could not move without crutches. At least until the spring. The woman who managed the farm was begging them to stay. She was frightened to live alone with her two daughters - girls of twelve and fourteen - while the foreign soldiers were roaming the country.

***

The building at the end of the narrow street was miraculously intact. The roof had blackened and sagged a little. The windows of the upper floors had no glass. The parts of the walls had crumbled. Yet, the dim light was brimming in the windows of the first floor.

They stopped in the middle of the street.

"Also[10]..." Friedhelm shrugged. His eyes running over the debris in the yard with the same blank indecipherable expression she had already noticed earlier while they had been making their way through the border outposts and then, towards the half-demolished Mitte district.

"Endlich da[11]!" She hurried towards the dark entrance.

"Warte.[12].."

"What for? For them to go to sleep so that we wake everyone up and take them by surprise?"

She tried to speak lightly, yet, she couldn't keep the tremor out of her voice.

While they were climbing the dilapidated steps and stumbling on the rubble and pieces of glass, she was biting on her lips. It was ridiculous to be afraid. She had dealt with the Werwolfs and Russian soldiers. Yet, now, she was desperately nervous to meet Friedhelm's parents.

As they reached the door of the apartment, she quickly took the shawl off her head and tried to smooth out her short curls. Now she wished she had not cut off her hair...

She looked back to where Friedhelm was standing. She could not see him clearly for it was dark, yet she knew exactly what he must look like now. His eyes might seem vacant and indifferent to a casual observer, and his face would be devoid of any emotion. Perhaps, even scowling slightly.

Well, after all, it was worse for him than her. Other people might be now occupying the apartment where his parents had once lived.

She raised her hand and knocked.

At first, it was quiet.

Then, she heard someone's feet shuffling.

"Wer ist da[13]?"

She heard the click as the door lock turned.

In the flash of light, Branka saw the middle-aged woman. Her fair hair was tied up. Her short-sighted eyes watched anxiously. The sorrowful lines around her mouth.

Branka started for the woman reminded her of Petra. Only her nose was slightly longer, her face a bit more round, and her eyes... they were Friedhelm's eyes.

The woman was peering into her face.

"Wer sind Sie? Was brauchen Sie hier? Wir haben kein mehr zu essen... Bitte, gehen Sie weg[14]."

Slightly panicking, Branka turned towards Friedhelm who wasn't exactly making things any easier by lingering behind in the dark down the staircase. She wished she could do or say something without scaring this woman.  

_Oh come on...What if your mother shuts the door on me now? We'd be left standing here like two fools._

Aloud, she said only,

"Guten Abend[15]."

The woman noticed her old coat and torn shawl and sighed - not unkindly,

"Na ja, gut, Mädchen. Nur ein bisschen Brot. Aber dann musst du weg. So fort, und...[16]"

She stopped in her tracks as Friedhelm finally moved forward into the light.

"Mein Sohn... Mein kleiner Sohn[17]!"

No, she did not embrace him. She dropped on her knees right there on the dirty floor. She clasped his feet and his hands. Crying. Kissing. Whispering something through her tears.

Branka turned away wishing to somehow become invisible, or even better, slip away. It seemed almost indecent to stand by and gape at the scene. She herself felt like bawling. Between the two of them - this woman and herself - they could probably flood the staircase with tears.  

She heard Friedhelm's hollow voice,

"Mutter, alles ist gut. Ich bin hier. Alles ist gut...[18]"

And then someone else's voice,

"Mutter, was ist passiert[19]?"

Branka swiftly turned back.

The young man was standing there. His sharp cheekbones. His straight nose and high forehead. His parted hair. Yes, this one did look a bit like those postcard German soldiers in their shiny boots. Much more so than his younger brother.

"Friedhelm..." the man's voice cracked. All of a sudden, he was no longer an image of a perfect German officer on home leave. More like a schoolboy who thought he had failed all the exit exams and then, was told that he had made it after all.

Both made a step forward at the same time. Yet, at the very last moment, they did not embrace. Friedhelm moved aside first. His brother seemed to understand something that she did not, because he simply extended his right hand for a handshake.  

Friedhelm awkwardly held out his left.

His brother's lips quivered.

His mother did not seem to see anything or anyone around. She could neither leave her son's side nor take her eyes off him.

The brother took notice of the newcomer first.

The unspoken question in his large grey-blue eyes.

"Oh, ja. Das ist meine Frau. Branka, das ist Wilhelm. Meine Mutter...[20]"

"Sehr a...angenehm...[21]" Branka was so surprised that she got choked on her greeting.

_Frau, since when, I wonder?_

She felt warm inside.

He called her his wife as if it was something already decided on ... even though they had never as much as said a word to each other about their future in Germany.

***

While leading them along the narrow corridor, Frau Winter whispered apologetically,

"Our boarders go to bed early, so I don't want to wake them up."

"The boarders? Since when?"

"You know them," Wilhelm explained, "It's the Beckenhauers. Their apartment was bombed back in winter. The grandfather is obviously too old to be moved. Then, Frau Beckenhauer's son came back. Short of one leg. So, we gave away our two rooms. My bedroom and the dining-room.  Better to have people we know than some strangers brought in by the housing authorities. Besides, we didn't think we'd ever need another bedroom..."

His voice broke off again.

The tall balding man went into the living room to meet them. He was dragging his feet slightly, as one who had recently suffered a stroke. His lips were tightly pressed together, and his eyes...ouch! she shivered inwardly... one could bore a hole with such a hard stare.

She felt Friedhelm's shoulders tensing up and saw him carefully pulling his mother away from himself.

"Vater, Friedhelm came back. Meet his wife, Branka."

_At a boy, at least, you, older brother, are not at loss. Even though you were staring me down back there in the lobby._

_Too bad that Vater could obviously care less. Just look at him. Is that how one should meet his long-gone and lost son? Straight as a ramrod. Cool as a cucumber. Well, whatever._ She jerked up her head defiantly and tossed her hair. _There, eat this. You can't keep me down, a prude as you are. We'll yet have to see who is going to win this battle._

Herr Winter returned her greeting by turning around and marching back into his room.

Not a single word. Without so much as turning a hair.

The brothers glanced at one another as if they were well-familiar with such peculiar behavior.  Fridhelm grinned mirthlessly.

"Don't bear a grudge, son, please. Your father is very ill..."

"Our father cannot forgive us that we have lost the war," Wilhelm explained evenly.

"Echt[22]? So, you are in disgrace too now?"

Once in the light, his mother probably became aware of her son's emaciated looks and wounded hand because she promptly resumed her crying.

"Mutter, bitte. Ich bin schön gut.[23]"

"I still can't believe I see you... Am I dreaming?"

Wilhelm said quietly,

"I can hardly believe it myself. I saw your handwriting on the photo... and then, we've got the official notice and your Wehrpass."

Friedhelm answered over his mother's head,

"Let's talk about this later."

***

It was past midnight when Branka was finally able to take a bath.

"Unfortunately, there is no hot water for you to take a shower, and no central heating, and oh, the electricity is on and off," Frau Winter said apologetically, "So, we have to heat everything on the stove."

Who cares about central heating!

The whole bucket full of steaming hot water - that was the real seventh wonder!

Branka tore off the dirty rags that, like the second skin, had stuck to her body.

She carefully approached the large bathroom mirror. She had not looked into a real mirror for more than a year.

A moment later, she wished she had not looked into it now...

Her ribs sticking out. Her thin neck and rough skin. Her hair was enough to make the cat laugh. In short, she was a monster not fit for human eyes.

The door creaked behind her back. She swiftly wrapped herself into the towel.

"Ich bin's[24]," Friedhelm brought in a large bottle, "It's kerosene. We used it to keep off lice back at the front."

"Danke." She drew the towel up to her chin.

"Wait, don't close the door yet. Here, mother sent you her robe and nightgown."

"Danke."

"Is everything going well, Branka?"

"Everything is just perfect. Get out, will you?"

He shrugged. A moment later, she heard his voice - unnaturally light, probably, for his mother's sake - down the corridor,

"Well, what have you all been up to?"

***

She knew that the brothers would probably stay up till morning.

She couldn't sleep either no matter how tired she was.

The clean room. The clean and warm bed. She'd been dreaming of sleeping in a real bed for ages.

The dusty books on the shelves along the walls. Just like Friedhelm had told her. Someone's photos and paintings on the walls. Even the toy cars.  

At the sight of the cars, Branka chuckled.

"I didn't allow anyone to change anything in your room. I always believed you'd come back one day..," and then Frau Winter's smiling face grew somewhat concerned , "The only problem is that Wilhelm has been living here since his own bedroom went to the Beckenhauers..."

"I am perfectly fine. I can sleep on the coach in the living room," the older brother interrupted her.

"No need to make any changes for me. I'll be fine sleeping on the coach."

"What are you talking about, son? What about your wife?"

Frau Winter met her eyes for the first time since they had arrived and smiled hesitantly. Her smile resembled aunt Petra's. And Friedhelm's.

"Branka? We'll find a room somehow."

His voice sounded detached as if he had already forgotten all about her and Böhmerwald.

And now, she was laying in his bed. Listening to their voices from the living room.

They both had already taken a bath and strongly smelt of kerosene.

Frau Winter had knocked on the door just before she went to bed.

"Fühlen Sie sich wohl darin[25]?"

"Ja, danke schön[26]."

The woman was still standing in the doorway as if waiting for something.

"Wenn Sie noch etwas brauchen, bitte sagen Sie mir[27]."

"Bitte, Sie können mich duzen[28]."

The woman nodded timidly.

"Guten Nacht[29]."

***

Friedhelm came in when it was nearly dawn.

Half-asleep, she made a spring and reached for a knife or a stick - anything that could serve as a weapon. Still not used to safety.

He stood there by the book-shelf. Running his fingers across the spines of books. She could see the side of his cheek - still flushed and full or razor-cuts. Suddenly, he laughed quietly to some thoughts of his. His laughter was curt and cheerless, but somehow it stung.

Until this day, there had been only the two of them against the hostile surroundings. Friedhelm had been bitter, silent, and sometimes harsh, and yet, he needed her. Now, he was with his family, and she was on her own. What was she to become for him? What place would she take in this new life?

As he lay next to her, she moved closer to the wall to give him more space. Such a narrow bed.

She was falling back asleep... drifting away when she heard,

"Branka, es ist schön dass du da bist[30]."

***

The girl ran - or rather flew - into the room. Her beautiful face flushed. Her light-brown hair flowing.

"Guten Abend, Frau Winter!"

Then, she threw her arms around Friedhelm's neck.

"Friedhelm, aber das ist unmöglich![31]"

Her hands running through his hair.

Her eyes shining and needy as if she could not have enough of him.

Her coat was old, and her lips were pale.

Yet, she was still pretty. Rather too much... and standing rather too close...for rather too long...

Branka could not help it,

"Ahem..."

The girl turned around. Friedhelm grinned ~~.~~

"Branka, meet Charly, Wilhelm's girlfriend, and your prospective sister-in-law."

The girl turned bright pink and became even prettier. Yet, since she was the older brother's sweetheart, Branka could now forgive this Charly her looks.

"Hey you, take one step at a time," Wilhelm had just entered the room and stopped in the doorway.

"Aber klar[32]! Considering how long it took both of you to even get together, we'll have your wedding in twenty years or so."

The girl held out her hand. Her stare was direct and... crystal clear. Branka had previously thought only children could have such innocent and bright eyes.

Wilhelm was already speaking in a business-like manner.

"Charly is just back from her shift. She'll try to talk to one of the doctors so that they'd take you in."

The three of them responded almost at the same time.

"Vielen Dank... Es ist nett von Ihnen... von dir[33]."

"Bitte schön[34]. I hope it will work out so that the hospital officials wouldn't know..."

"I am in no hurry though."

"Ahem..."

"Branka, did you catch a cold? Why do you keep coughing?"

"Just because..." She looked at him pointedly. _Yes, that's right, if you walk with that bullet inside your chest a bit longer, you probably wouldn't need to hurry anywhere save the nearest cemetery_.

"Then, we need to take care of your papers. Officially, you are in the death records, and it would likely takes us ages to prove your identity with all this mess. For instance, I was given my Entlassungschein only three months ago... By the way, do you still have your Soldbuch?"

"How could I lose it? Just to think of that...  The Sudetes and Russian outposts, of course, I'd keep my Soldbuch in my pocket at all times for everyone to see my service record."

She quickly looked into Friedhelm's face and saw his brows drawn together and hard lines about his mouth.

She saw Wilhelm gritting his teeth.

"I merely want to help, Friedhelm. I myself have recently dealt with the bureaucratic machine, and I can tell you that you are not likely to get either a work permit or food ration without the proper documentation done and the police registration..."

"Danke. Remind me, please, how long have you been chilling out after your vacation in the penal battalion? I believe you arrived here in the end of the last spring, so, that makes it almost a year for you. On my part, it's only my third evening at home. Could you possibly give me the leave warrant at least until the end of this week?"

Friedhelm mockingly saluted his brother.

Charly was wretchedly twisting her bag handles.

It was definitely the time to interfere.

"Could we talk about the papers later? It's time for dinner, and I'm dying of hunger..."

Everyone sat down around the table. Frau Winter brought in the stone-hard wheat cookies that had somehow survived through the food shortage.

Charly's smile was both sad and light. The steam from the tea-pot made her hair somewhat frizzy.

"Everything is almost just like it once was. When I heard the news in the morning, I've been walking like in a dream all day long. I kept making a mess of everything at work because - silly me - each time a visitor opened the door, I kept thinking what if Greta... What if someone comes in and tells me that she's somehow made it through as well."

Wilhelm made a move to cover her hand with his own.

"I wish Viktor were here now..." Charly added quietly.

"Yes..." Friedhelm's eyes were downcast. "I forgot to ask if he was still in Berlin."

"He went back to Poland. He got hold of some documents in the archives that stated his family had been deported there. Now, he is trying to find out more information. You know, sometimes, there are survivors... " Wilhelm answered.

"Somehow I don' t think he is going to come back to live here," Charly continued her train of thought, "We met again before he had left. He said everything in Berlin reminded him of... people and life he had lost."

"Well, he's not the only one who thinks that way," Friedhelm responded, "Even though he definitely has more right to grief than others."

"I thought the right to grief - just like the right to death - was universal," the words escaped Branka's lips before she could think of it.

Everyone looked her way as if having just remembered about her existence. Yet again - since her arrival - Branka had this feeling of being an odd girl out. She blushed and stared down onto her lap.

Friedhelm gave a curt laugh,

"Branka, I can't believe you've actually  taken a look at some of the books on those shelves."

"So what if I did?" she said defensively.

_It's not like I have anything else to do - sitting in your bedroom all day long and not being able to venture out for your father might take a grave offence if his eye falls on me on his way to the bathroom._

"Didn't I tell you most of these books are of no use?"

"Now, that's a news," Charly's laughter was a bit strained, "Friedhelm talking people out of reading books."

He shrugged,

"Books were written by people. That's just one of the reasons why they've lost their meaning."

"Viktor told us that he had met you back in Poland." Wilhelm interrupted the prolonged pause, "We thought he had been the last of us to see you alive..."

"Did he give you the details of our meeting by any chance?" Friedhelm's voice broke down. He pulled out his chair, "Will you excuse me?"

Wilhelm said quietly,

"Friedhelm, we are all in this."

Branka was hesitant. Should she follow Friedhelm now? No, better not. Besides, there was something else she needed to take care of. Indeed, sulking all day long in the bedroom and leafing through the dusty books was not exactly her piece of cake.

"Wilhelm, what should I do to obtain my residency and work permit? I have all my documents on me, but I am still only a foreigner. And... Charlotte... sorry, Charly, can you mention me to someone at the hospital?  As a school-girl, I once attended nurse courses for a couple of months back in Vimperk before the war. Of course, I don't have any certificate, but I was helping the doctor back at our village. I can speak some Russian and it can come handy. Perhaps, they might need an assistant to the nurses, or someone to do cleaning for them..."

The two Germans exchanged glances.

"I'll try..." Charly said indecisively, "It's just that... my word isn't exactly the best recommendation for the current hospital officials."

"I would think it should be fine with the residency permit. The Russian authorities are not too nice to the refugees from the eastern territories - at some point they even did not want to give them the ration cards - but you are a Czech, so that might change the matter, " Wilhelm added, "As to you working at the hospital... I agree with Charly. Your best bet would probably be to talk to them yourself. For most Germans who had directly participated in war it's mostly part-time temporary jobs now in exchange for the food coupons, and even those are not that easy to come by... I used to do some construction and truck-loading until a couple of weeks ago, I ran into my former classmate and landed on a job at the post office."

"You? Loading the trucks?" she looked at the man. Elegant even now, in his worn shirt and his hair cropped unevenly.

"Yes, why? I had much worse jobs back in..." he stopped and grew slightly pale. His stare suddenly went blank.

"Don't," Charly swiftly moved over towards him.

Branka retreated into the kitchen more than ever feeling an intruder. As if she had unwittingly stumbled upon something intimate. Something too gentle to be shared with anyone else.

***

Whether because of a genuine feeling, the physical need, or the base instinct of self-preservation, but they had never really quarreled or been estranged from each other during their journey. All the more surprising for Branka was to discover that after all, there were quite a few things she did not know about Friedhelm.

This new Friedhelm confused and made her not a little bit alarmed.

"What on earth is going on with you?"

"Look who is talking. After all, it was you who stormed off in a huff this morning, and you've been casting dirty looks at me ever since."

They were talking in whispers since the walls in his bedroom were paper-thin.

"That is because I can't stand the way you treat everyone. Like today, you snapped at Wilhelm for no reason at all..."

"There is a good reason, only you wouldn't understand it."

"Why don't you try me?"

 "If you insist... My brother thinks himself a changed man now. He thinks he has lost all his illusions."

"So what? Probably he did lose them. Didn't we all?"

He smirked.

"Do you know what he told me just yesterday? That I have been right all along, and this war was one giant failure. So ein Bart[35]! He then said that even so, there is still something to live for. As long as we are alive and have each other, and so on. All these pipe dreams they love to show in the films. That's what he calls losing illusions..."

' _Wilhelm isn't so wrong after all_ ,' she thought but aloud, she said,

"What about your mother?.. Whenever she is close by, you withdraw. Whenever she asks you something about our travel, or Böhmerwald, you barely manage two words. Don't you see she misses you, and you hurt her by avoiding her. "

"Do you really think it would make her feel better if I were up and up?"

 "You don't have to tell her everything, but it wouldn't kill you to spend a bit more time with her... After all, you are lucky you've still got a mother. I wish I had one who would care for me as much as your mom cares about you."

"Please feel free to borrow mine whenever you are in need of being smothered with kisses and flooded with tears."

"Very funny! Sometimes I wonder if you do have any feelings left in you."

"I probably don't, but don't let that bother you," he said lightly.

She felt her eyes stinging and quickly moved away. The bed springs treacherously creaked. The same bed springs that had been on the guard of the strictest order and decency at home since their arrival. They had steadily prevented her and Friedhelm from enjoying the luxury of their own bed and room without everyone else, family members and the Beckenhauers likewise, being immediately aware.

"Wo gehst du denn?[36]"

She had no idea. The bare uncarpeted floor was hard and icy cold.

He too sat down.

"Now, Branka, get back to bed. It's already past the midnight."

"Go to sleep then and leave me alone," she turned away.

He sighed and took his pillow off the bed.

"If that's what you want... There, the bed is all yours. Happy now?"

As usual, his voice was not angry, but patient and gently mocking as if he were talking to a willful child. Somehow, it only made her more furious with him.

"Bist du verrückt[37]? You'll catch pneumonia, and it will be the end of you."

He did not respond and stretched on the floor next to her.

"Guten Nacht, liebe Frau. Brrrgh.. And a cold night it will be."

She suddenly found herself struggling between laughing and boxing his ears.

"Well," he cautiously pushed the pillow towards her, "As your mood scale has obviously gone up, we might as well make use of our current position."

The chill of the parquet against her naked back.

The heat of his body.

The empty bed vaguely whitened by the light of the newly installed street lamp.

The clock chiming.

***

For the first time in so many months, she was alone without Friedhelm.

Wilhelm had left for work, and Friedhelm had told his mother and brother that he would go to Wehrersatzdienstelle. Branka knew better than to believe him but she wisely did not voice her doubts. ~~~~

She expected no one would bother with her, but only half-an-hour after the brothers had left, she heard a discreet knock on the door.

"Branka, I hope I didn't disturb you. I am trying to make my coat and dresses fit for you, and I need to take your measurements."

Friedhelm's mother had dimples when she smiled.

"I am not really used to sewing. Just mending the boys' shirts or jackets. We used to buy readymade clothes or have them professionally tailored. Now, I have to learn the hard way."

"Let me help you. My aunt Petra made clothes for half of the village. She taught me some sewing."

The sewing machine was chirping quietly. The flecks of sunlight reflected on the shiny surface of the piano.

"The piano... I always meant to ask... is it yours?"

"I used to play, yes, but then, it was mostly Friedhelm's." 

Branka stopped the machine.

"Friedhelm? I didn't know he could play piano."

"Oh yes! He is...I mean he was very good at that..." Frau Winter stumbled in the middle of the sentence, "I... I guess we'd better sell it now or give away. Not to remind him. Ernst wanted to do sell it long ago, but I was clinging to the piano, and the books, and... everything in Friedhelm's room."

"Yes, I've seen the toy cars."

"So silly of me... Aber egal[38]... Branka, ich möchte mit dir über etwas zu reden[39]..."

Frau Winter nervously smoothed out her dress folders.

Branka was immediately on her guard. She had already seen such looks and had similar heartfelt talks with the women in the village who didn't like their sons to go out with a cuckoo.

_That's right, Frau Winter, I know where you are heading to. I know I've come to your place out of nowhere. I have nothing to be proud of. I am not particularly pretty or kind like Charly. Who knows what Fraulein your son had had an eye for before I even came into the picture._

Yet, this German woman again came as a surprise... Her lips quivering, she suddenly grasped Branka's hand.

"I didn't want to bother Friedhelm with questions, but I asked Wilhelm, and he told me the whole story... I... have no words to... thank you, Branka, thank you for my boy, for bringing him back home..."

Branka felt her cheeks flush red and discreetly tried to pull her hand away.

"Please don't... I... That was really nothing..."

But the woman was already talking. Words were spilling from her mouth as if she had kept them to herself for far too long.

"I've been praying for them both. All the time. All these years. All the nights through. I've never wanted this wretched war, not me! Wars are the men's sport and the women's tears. My Ernst had this large map on the wall, and every day, he was mapping out our troops' movements.  I didn't care. I just wanted my boys back safe and sound... It was a bit easier with Wilhelm. He was always such a sensible boy. He went to one war and then, came back, and it didn't damage him. That's why I somehow always knew that he would be the one to come back no matter what, so I didn't worry about him as much as about Friedhelm... You should have seen Friedhelm before the war! He was so very different... He was always gentle. He liked reading, always was scribbling something in his notebook. Some poems or stories. Ernst was trying to make a model warrior out of him but it was of no use," Frau Winter chuckled softly through her tears, " "As a boy, Wilhelm liked nothing else better than listening to his father's war stories. There was never enough of those for him. He knew all the weapons, all the military uniforms...  Friedhelm? Not so much... He was never a good fighter at school. He was often coming back home with the bloody nose or his textbooks torn apart. Wilhelm tried to protect him, and sometimes even made fun of him."

She sighed and wiped off her face with the edge of her apron. The womanly habit as old as hills. Aunt Petra used to do the same whenever something upset her.

"In 1943, when Friedhelm was on leave, I felt the change in him at once. He snapped at his father. He had never told him back before. Not even once. He became very silent. As if frozen inside. He could not sleep at night. I could hear him pacing the room.  He even left earlier than he had to. I cried. I begged him to stay. And I knew it was of no use. He could barely look me in the eye. When the door closed behind him, I grew numb. I knew immediately that it was the last time..."

"Last June, that man sent us the photo and the short letter, and then, in September, we received an official death notice. That spring...Wilhelm had just come back and was wandering around the rooms as if he had lost his mind. Ernst had a stroke.  The Russian troops everywhere.  The bombed buildings. The Beckenhauers... I didn't care. I kept seeing my Friedhelm every night in my sleep. I kept seeing him laying in the mud, far away from here, in some forest. Calling me.  If only I could, I would have walked there on foot..."

Her voice broke off.

"Enough about me. It's long gone, and both of my sons are back, so I should be happy and content... It's only that... I wish I knew better how to help my boys. But I am only their mother... That is why I am so grateful to you and Charly."

"Yes," Branka was glad to change the topic, "Charly is very good at dealing with war-induced wounds."

 _'Probably much better than myself_.'

"She is, isn't she? But tell me about yourself, Branka. What about your parents? How come they agreed for you to come here? So far away from your homeland?"

"My parents are dead."

Branka could see that Wilhelm had not told everything to his mother, or - more likely than not - Friedhelm had spared his brother some details of her background.

"Please forgive me... I thought since you are from the Sudetenland and speak German so well... I thought for sure, at least one of your parents might be a German...."

_'For all I know, at least one of my parents might be a Jew.'_

Just for a glimpse of a moment, the turbid wave of a blind dark rage rose up from the bottom of her soul.  

Yet, all it took was only one look at this mortified woman with tired lines around her mouth and in the corners of her eyes. What was the woman's guilt towards her?

"No, you misunderstood me. I am an orphan. My parents had died long before the war."

_Forgive me, aunt Petra, Václav, Jolana... Forgive me, Stepanka..._

_I've tried so hard but I cannot go on when all of you are dragging me back._

_I should have probably chosen the memory of you, but I choose to live instead._

 

[1] Don't be afraid.

[2] Tell me

[3] Mommy, where is daddy?

[4] my woman (Russian)

[5] The village in the Czech Republic the population of which was massacred as a revenge for the assassination of Reinhard Heyndrich

[6]  the man... He won't tell you the truth. (Russian)

[7] A Jack of all trades (Russian)

[8] collective farm in USSR

[9] Golden Prague (Czech)

[10] So (German)

[11] Finally arrived

[12] Wait

[13] Who is it?

[14] Who are you? What do you want? We don't have any food left... Please, go away.

[15] Good evening

[16] Very well, girl. I'll get some bread for you. But then, you must go away. Immediately.

[17] My son.  My little son.

[18] Mother, no. It's okay. I'm here. It's okay...

[19] Mother, what's going on?

[20] Oh, yes. This is my wife. Branka, this is Wilhelm. My mother...

[21] Nice to meet you.

[22] Really?

[23] Mother, please. I'm all right.

[24] It's me

[25] Is everything okay for you?

[26] Yes, thank you so much.

[27] If you need something, just tell me.

[28] Please, you can tell me "du" (German "thou" used between people who know each other well and family members)

[29] Good night

[30] It's good to have you here

[31] Friedhelm, it's unbelievable!

[32] Sure

[33] Thank you. It's so nice of you (formal)... you (informal).

[34] You are welcome

[35] That's an old chestnut.

[36] Where are you going to?

[37] Are you crazy?

[38] It doesn't matter

[39] Branka, I wanted to talk to you about something.


	4. Der Sühne - Atonement

**Thank you to everyone who has been reading and commenting! Your support means a lot. There will be one more chapter to go and possibly an epilogue sometime by the end of June. Hope you'll stay tuned!**

**Let me know what you think about this chapter (hopefully, not too much historical stuff).**

 

**February  - October 1946**

This new life in Berlin turned out to be unsophisticated compared to the life Branka used to have. Last year, there had been so many challenges for her and Friedhelm to overcome. Should they risk a trip to Germany or perish in Czechoslovakia? Where to spend the next night? How to make their tale believable for the soldiers at the outpost?

All these questions had been gone by now. The only ever-lasting challenge - the lack of food and ever decreasing food rations - was everyone's problem to solve. All the residents of their six-room apartment  - herself, the Winters, the Beckenhauers, and Fraulein Krüger, a sharp-eyed and sharp-nosed new tenant who had recently won the battle over Herr Winter's room with the approval of the housing authorities - each in their own way had been dealing with this problem.

Beckenhauer the junior, who had by now got used to his stump and crutches, served as both the janitor and watchman at the newly opened factory. His mother went into the construction industry to have a category I ration card. The old Beckenhauer was taking prolonged naps to "cheat on his stomach" as he used to say.

Fraulein Krüger chose a less thorny path and made friends with a Russian officer. The officer could not put two words in German together, and the girl was no better in Russian, but nevertheless, they had obviously managed to come to a good understanding since Fraulein Krüger enjoyed the privilege of extra rationing and even cigarettes - much to Frau Beckenhauer's righteous but silent indignation.

Frau Winter took on cooking for the whole household in addition to sewing and trying to grow vegetables amidst the rubble in the backyard. Herr Winter steadily resisted the temptation of getting involved with the mundane hustle and stoically ignored the inconvenience of the growing number of tenants. Deprived of his study, he had found a refuge in the bedroom, thus, denying his wife any access there during the daytime.

Wilhelm was trying to set a personal record and keep one job for more than two months - the employers had been unofficially instructed to give priority to the former Mannschaften[1] over the officers.

Friedhelm was in and out. Usually keeping to himself. Sometimes disappearing for days and mysteriously re-appearing with French or English canned food or even fresh meat. Whenever that happened, all smiley Frau Winter was happily conjuring up a new recipe, yet, Branka was on the look-out. Unlike his mother, she knew only too well what the options were with no food ration cards and no legal job. The black market gave nothing away freely.

Branka chose not to voice her concerns though since she had enough trouble keeping her own nose clean. The currency was still unreliable. Reichsmarken were only for lighting the stove. The AMC[2] Marken were going up and down the value following a very unpredictable pattern. The hospital had been paying the salaries in barter coupons since 1944, and the coupons were not enough.

Fortunately, Branka's hairpin proved an excellent tool to unlock Herr Winter's bureau that was put in the living room after Fraulein Krüger had taken over the study. Now, whenever the barter stores ran out of stock or the lines were too long, Branka filched a silver cigarette case or a cufflink and went straight to the rag fair to mingle with the crowds at Alexanderplatz.

Mixing Russian with German. Quick to grasp a joke.

"Where are you from? Aren't you loud, you, red-head?"

"Греха не боишься?[3]"

"Trouble? From you? Do you really have guts for that?"

"You bet."

"Don't you dare mich begrapschen[4], солдат[5]."

At midday, Branka usually left the market for her shift at the hospital. Scrubbing the floors and carrying the food trays in and the chamber pots out. Until the late evening. Until the pots, bandages, and surgical instruments blurred into the spots dancing before her eyes.

The lunchtime with Charly - the only beacon of light in the dusk of grey washed-out blankets and grimy walls.

"You know, Germans and Russians bleed the same blood after all."

Charly smiling absent-mindedly into her plate.

"Ich hab' das seit schön ein Jahr gewissen[6]."

On her day off, Branka likewise other Berliners went Schatzsuche[7].

She was sure a sight. Frau Winter's old scarf and a self-made patchwork apron with large pockets at the front protecting her dress and hair from dust.  Scrambling through the bricks and pieces of metal and glass. Even a year after the bombing, quite a few quarters were still buried under the rubble.

She had learnt how to make use of and barter nearly everything. Enameled pots, someone's dusty shoes, and pieces of cheap jewelry.  Better not to think about how a wedding ring or a fragment of a silver necklace had come to rest in the ashes and debris.

She had a special pocket for the cigarette butts. Once one had enough of these, it was possible to roll a new cigarette. Even Vater was no longer squeamish about it despite his inflexible Third Reich principles.  

This life was tough, and yet Branka often caught herself smiling for no reason at all while walking back home. She felt so acutely alive and free that she could care less about the gnawing pain in her permanently half-empty stomach or the holes in the soles of her shoes.

Her heels beating a staccato rhythm across the broken sidewalks. Her hair finally reaching her shoulders and flowing in the wind. The soldiers' whistling and casual remarks. In this surge of ever-present joy, sometimes she could not help but smile back, and once or twice, this carelessness led her to run and jump onto the footboard of the moving tram to escape a persistent suitor. Yet, in spite of all the frenzied rumors, she was not afraid of these soldiers. What harm could possibly come to her now when she felt herself at the top of the world?

At first, with all the hustle and bustle, Branka almost did not mind that for the past few months, she met Friedhelm only at night or dawn. Coming and going at different times. Making their way to the bed in the dark. Having a hard time keeping their eyes open.

Her brief and gentle caress across his sharp shoulder blades. _How are you?_

Him returning her hug and avoiding to look at her. _I'm fine._

 _It's nothing_ , she wanted to say, _it's only us trying to survive._

After all, who was to take risks if not the two of them? Not Wihelm who had just applied to the economics program of the recently re-opened Universität unter den Linden[8] and was trying to save some money for himself and Charly to rent their own place. Not Vater who would rather put a bullet in his head than reconcile with the fact that yet another war had been lost, and Berlin was now not only for Germans. Certainly not Mutter who was wincing painfully at a few curse words in Russian. 

Sometimes Friedhelm's unconscious mutterings  - these never-to-go-away echoes of the forests and villages in the east - still woke her up.

"Hush, bleib ruhig. Ich bin's[9]."

Frau Winter's careful footsteps and the candle light glimmering beneath the door.  Mutter... always watching over her son.

***

Vater... as considered proper for the master of the house, he was always the last to join the dining table. No one had been supposed to touch the food until he took his place at the head of the table. Even though the hungry stomachs of the two former Wehrmacht soldiers were sometimes rambling louder than the war planes.

This Friday, Herr Winter went out of his way to demonstrate his superior status.

The clock was ticking away. Branka was dizzy from watching the pendulum. Six minutes... Seven...eight...

Her stomach was aching too albeit for a very different reason. Her time of the month had arrived all of a sudden after more than a year of intermission. Just what she needed right now...

"Could it be that Herr Winter had dozed off by his map of the old military campaigns?"

"Branka, bitte."

Frau Winter looked at her imploringly.

"Entschuldigen Sie[10]."

She exchanged glances with Charly and saw the latter's eyes twinkling.

The sound of his footsteps.

She could not help but whisper under breath,

"Endlich da[11]."

His brows drawn together. His spotless white shirt. Fresh-ironed trousers and vest. He dressed like this every single day. Even though he had never been out for all the time she was here. Such a waste of Frau Winter's time... doing all the laundry...

"Ernst, wir haben heute Fleiß. Die Mädchen und Wilhelm...[12]"

"Wer hat in meiner Kommode gekramt[13]?"

Well, he did notice after all! She had already rummaged through everything in there that was of any value.

Frau Winter was batting her eyes nervously. The heavy pot still in her hands.

Friedhelm scowled into his plate.

Wilhelm's stare was direct as usual.

"Was meinst du, Vater?[14]"

"Schämt ihr euch! Nur für ein Stück vom Fleiß... [15]"

Oh no, not that... The dinner could get cold while he would be reading his sermon. For sure, he would talk of fallen heroes - just like the last time when him and Friedhelm had been at each other's throats.

Too much pathos to her taste.

"Pferdenfleisch, Vatti, nur Pferdenfleisch.[16] Your cufflink isn't worth much. The American watch with Mickey Mouse will give your heirlooms a run for your money at the black market."

Ouch, she could feel the intensity of his hawkish stare burning right through her. Take it easy, Vatti, we need no fire in the middle of the living room.

She could barely take a deep breath before the cloud was over Friedhelm's head.

"You... You've come here out of nowhere. No doubt wading through corpses... Bringing this filth into my house so that she can steal away and sell everything we Germans hold dear..."

Frau Winter and Wilhelm kept their silence. Even though earlier they had not been against consuming the revenues of her theft.

Charly's flushed cheeks.

Friedhelm's hard stare.

"Branka is not to blame. I gave her the extra keys from the bureau. She had my permission."

That was not true but she let it go. What difference did it make who had broken into the cabinet after all as long as there was some food on the table?

"Who do you think you are to dispose of what does not belong to you? Living under my roof... Well, somehow I am not surprised. A fine family I have now. A thief, a black marketer, and a deserter."

To hell with the horse meat. She could care less that he had just labeled her as filth. She wasn't some porcelain doll to be so easily broken. Neither was it a big news to listen to some high-brow German swearing at her. 

Yet, there was something she could not stomach...

"Wie kannst du es wagen, so etwas zu sagen[17]? Oh you, foolish old man! Do you think your sons don't talk back because they are ashamed of themselves or afraid of you? No, they just feel sorry for you. As simple as that.  Not me though... I'm neither sorry for nor afraid of you! And you know what? It's too easy for you to blame them... It was you who'd lost the first war and wisely stayed at home to wait out the second war.  Why so though? I know that in the end, they were taking men of fifty and sixty years old for Volkssturm. Your experience and knowledge would have been priceless in Böhmerwald... Oh yes, right, I almost forgot! You had a stroke. Oh no, was für ein Pech[18] for everyone. I am sure that if it were not for this gnat, the troops would have been marching down the Red Square, and - no doubt - you would have been their leader!"

"Branka! Friedhelm, won't you do something?"

"Do what? Should I gag her?"

"Ernst, bitte, you mustn't worry. The doctor said..."

"Mein Gott, was ist denn los[19]?" old Beckenhauer was cautiously peering out of their quarters, "All this shouting... I thought the Russians came to take you in. Did you know they were raiding the apartments and taking away our lads. War crimes, they say, and I'd say quatsch[20]. The devil rebuking sin..."

"No one is raiding our apartment, Herr Beckenhauer," Wilhelm  - his face strained - pulled out his chair to block the entrance into the living room, "Everything is well. Have a good evening."

Fraulein Krüger's door opened as well, and the new tenant - fresh and pink in her new dressing gown - leaned against the closet in the corridor. She did not say a word but her cat-like smile and that inviting look she had always given to Friedhelm was the last drop for Branka.

She glared defiantly at Herr Winter.

His stare  - the white-hot barbed wire piercing her.

Suddenly, he laughed out loud. His laugh was mirthless and sounded metallic.

"The girl has some spunk at least. Yes, a fine mess our country was brought to. Yet again..."

***

Friedhelm gently took her by the elbow, led her into the bedroom, and slammed the door shut. 

"What?! What have I done wrong? I only told him what everyone had been thinking of."

"That's enough, Branka. Everyone has heard you, and we're all duly impressed. Now, please be quiet. With your public shaming speech, you'd have given the Führer a good run for his money."

He turned away and strained against the window sill as if attempting to push himself all the way out. She noticed his hands trembling slightly.

"Friedhelm, believe me, your father'll be perfectly fine. He'll survive. It will only do him good to finally know the truth about himself."

When he again looked at her, she saw that his lips had gone white, and the dark rims around his eyes had grown more pronounced.  

"Wie viel mehr?.. Kannst du nicht verstehen?[21]"

"Yes, I don't understand how he can say such things about his own son. You know what? It is easy for him to swim if your mum and you all are holding up his chin."

"He is my father. Whatever he says or does, he is still my father. Period. I do not want to hear you bickering with him. Not another word. It's my business. Not yours."  

She was so utterly lost. She could not reach him now. Not when he was snarling at her like a hunted animal in the trap.

"Your business? I thought... we were together in it... Haven't you just taken my blame on yourself? Haven't you told them I was your wife?"

"Yes, you are my wife. Ich muss dir vieleicht dankbar sein. Aber bitte... we are no longer in Böhmerwald with the Russian and American troops all around. "

She felt a pang in her chest..." Ich muss dir vielleicht dankbar sein" that's what he said... Not "Yes, you are my wife, and I love you," but "Yes, you are my wife, and I must probably be grateful to you." Just one small word, but it makes all the difference in the world.

***

Early last spring, Friedhelm had two consecutive surgeries on his knee and lung.

Charly finally managed to get hold of some doctor at another hospital who had agreed to take on the risk of dealing with a non-registered patient. An old acquaintance of hers, used to be her superior, she said blushing and for some reason avoiding to look at Wilhelm.

"Can he be trusted?" Branka could not help but be wary.

"Oh yes," Charly's always direct gaze was now somewhat evasive, "Back when the hospital was being evacuated, he... I... well, let's say he owes me."

In order to ensure discreteness, the surgical procedures had to be performed late on Saturday night after most of the doctors and nurses had already left. For the same reason, Charly had to be the doctor's only assistant, and Branka was assisting both of them.

All the time obsessively trying to focus on small insignificant details - the number of forceps on the tray, the way Charly tried to avoid meeting the doctor's eye or his hand when passing on the instruments, the fresh pimple on Friedhelm's cheek - anything just to take her mind off the dizzying memories. That time when she had already had to operate on Friedhelm - with a pocket knife and a sewing needle instead of all these forceps, clamps, and lancets. Just to think of that... She must have been mad back then! The damp dark underground shelter ever smelling of mildew... The forest and the ever-present rustling of leaves. Oh boy, did she hate trees, parks, and forests now!

After all was over, the doctor, a middle-aged man with his worn-out face and impassive eyes behind the thick glasses, examined the traces of old wounds and inquired curiously,

"Charlotte said it was you who had done some work on his shoulder and hand."

"That's too strong a word," she shivered, "Just took out one bullet, and after that, I mostly tried to stop the bleeding... and... mend whatever could be mended."

"Not bad for a non-trained person in the unsanitary conditions," he said twisting Friedhelm's hand to get a better look at it as if it were some inanimate object, "I see you've even put some stitches...You know you should study in the medical school. "

"No, thanks. One time was more than enough. I want to keep the frail remains of my sanity."

He grinned somewhat sadly,

"Did you hear that, Charlotte? What an optimist your friend is. Still cares about her sanity. And us - me, you, and this fellow - were probably doomed from the start."

"Oh, I am not doomed," Charly said defiantly and blushed.

There was something in the doctor's eyes as he watched Charly's glowing face - she must have thought of Wilhelm at that very moment - something close to tenderness and regret.

Branka felt a pang of jealousy. She suddenly and desperately wished  that at least once in a lifetime, Friedhelm would look at her as this doctor and Wilhelm used to look at Charly, and Václav - at Jolana.

She spent all Sunday day and night by Friedhelm's bed listening to his slurry post-narcosis ravings. For some inexplicable reason, she did not want Charly - or anyone else for that matter - to hear him talking of some children gunned down or hung men. She wished she hadn't been listening to this either.

 Early on Monday morning, before the officials and the personnel arrived, they had to take Friedhelm back home. Wilhelm managed to borrow the small mail truck from his friend. The doctor provided them with all the necessities - from stretchers to medication for lung abscess - and promised to pay a visit as soon as he could spare some time.

Friedhelm came to himself on their way home as the truck was jouncing up and down on the bumpy road, and Charly read off the list of instructions the doctor had left for them. Neither her nor Branka had been able to take days off work, and now, they would have to take shifts looking after Friedhelm.

His fingers were burning-hot and sweaty.

"Branka... Have I been talking in my sleep?"

"Hush, the doctor said you mustn't..."

The truck wheels were rattling. Charly seemed immersed in listing everything that Branka was supposed to take care of while she was at the hospital.

"Remember, don't give him too many pain-killers... These pills are to bring down the fever..."

"Branka," she had to lean over to hear his whisper, "Bitte, make sure no one enters the room if I start raving again. Especially my mother."

"What about me?" she wanted to ask, "Why do I have to listen to this again and again? Don't I deserve to forget and be happy?"

Yet, in the depth of her heart, she knew why.

______________________

Life went on. The updates on the hearings of the Nuremberg process in the newspapers. The demarcation line. The interzone pass.

She was sometimes wondering how it was for the Germans to live in a kind of a ghetto after they had watched so many of their neighbors being imprisoned and driven away in the wagons for cattle.

It was definitely much harder on them than on her. She had never known a pre-war Berlin. The rules established by the Allies were only a game.

The cacophony of different languages and uniforms.

The secret code of glances and winks that translated as anything from "I have canned meat to sell" to "Get the hell out of here. The police is on their way".

She swam easily in these deep waters.

_______________________

Only once she almost lost it.

On the day when she heard a well-familiar zkurvený život[22] in the queue in the emergency waiting room.

The food tray slipped from the patient's knees. The man gasped, but she was already on her way out.

"Ahoj[23]!"

It was the first time in her life that she had seen the man. Yet, they embraced each other as if they were long-lost siblings.

"Where are you from?"

"How come you are here?"

The senior nurse looked out to identify the source of the hullaballoo, and Branka hurriedly led her new acquaintance to the back yard.

He treated her with a cigarette, and she stuffed it into her pocket. Just what she needed to make peace with Herr Winter.

"The world is a small village. I've met quite a few Czech guys here but you are the only girl so far."

She said without thinking,

"I am here with my husband."

"What trade is he in? I know all the Czechs here."

His sparkling eyes were the color of the sky. Not this grey Himmel[24] of Berlin, but the bright-blue  nebe[25] of her homeland.

She broke off.

"I... I must go. I am on duty now."

"Come to see me after your shift is over. Bring your man over. Just ask for Ludvik. Anyone would know me at Alexanderplatz. Your man probably knows me as well. I tell you I know all the Czechs here..."

She did not venture to Alexanderplatz for more than three weeks after this brief encounter.

______________________

She was easily swimming in these waters.

She had been watching, and yet, not seeing...

Sighted, and yet so blind...

The homeless soldiers who had just returned from the camps and prisons sitting at the Lehrter Station. Pushed and ordered around by the police.

Women and children staggering under the loads of wood. The food queues. Schoolboys rampaging the coal trucks. Trümmerfrauen[26] who were in their late fifties and even sixties.

The sewing machine buzzing late at night in the kitchen. Frau Winter conjuring up new dresses for her neighbors out of old pre-war clothes in exchange for extra food coupons.

Charly with her eyes like two candles. Both of her parents had died in the bombing, her best friend Greta gone, renting a room together with a fellow nurse, and yet, the candles were still shining through.

Wilhelm juggling his part-time jobs and then, all of a sudden going off course and spending days or even weeks smoking at the backyard or wandering off.

Just before the war, Wilhelm used to be a bright young officer with a brilliant military career ahead and no inclination for schooling. His younger brother had just graduated from high school and had conspired with his mother to overrule their father's wish and enter the philosophy program at the university.

Now, five years later, the roles had reversed. The older brother was through with heroic ambitions, and his last year in the penal battalion had served him well when applying to the university. The new regime was rather inclined to condone desertion of the former Wehrmacht soldiers as the manifestation of their pacifism.

Friedhelm was having a hard time fitting in with his civilian life. As if it were a school uniform he had grown out of.

Leafing through the books he had once used to like as if he were a tourist in some strange city trying to make sense of the guide map.

Sitting by the window late at night with the unlighted cigarette butt in his mouth.

Taking on some random part-time jobs - Branka could never tell how legal or dangerous they were. Moving through the city and the patrol militia men as if behind the enemy lines - always ready to retreat into the side street or the gateway passage.

Avoiding any interaction with the neighbors. His face growing still each time a housing authorities representative knocked on their door to inform the residents of the new restrictions on the electricity limits.

No words had been spoken between them, and yet, Branka knew that Friedhelm had still not had gone to Wehrersatzdienstelle for the new documents.

A minefield of guesses...The guesses that smelt of marches, forests, and stagnant blood. She would have liked to close her eyes and ears - close her heart - and get her head under the bed covers so as not to learn more.

The guesses and memories driving Friedhelm out late at night and bringing him back only at dawn. His clothes sometimes reeking of female perfume. The faint scent of alcohol and cigarettes on his breath.

Sleeping with his face against the wall and his back towards her.

His stone-heavy stare whenever a bored Russian soldier called out to her on the street.

It had been so much easier between them in Böhmerwald. All she had to do was to change his bandages, or bring him water, or simply hold him tight.

This was no longer enough.

She was easily swimming in these deep waters.

He was sinking without a single cry for help.

"Ich muss dir vielleicht dankbar sein."

***

After dinner, the apartment had gone very quiet. Even old Beckenhauer had not coughed even once. As if all of them were in some conspiracy.

"Since we've come to this," Friedhelm added casually, "There is no real need for you to nick away these trinkets. The police have increased control over the market, and I don't want you to get caught. Like they say, expenditures exceed the revenues."

"If so, you're in more danger than me."

He shrugged,

"Don't you have your night shift at the hospital in an hour or so?"

That was true. Charly had probably already left without waiting for her. Yet, why was Friedhelm the first to notice?

"You'd prefer me to leave, wouldn't you? For me to be gone for good?"

He looked up sharply.

"What are you talking about?"

She was scared of how true her words had rung.

"You said you were grateful to me for what I'd done."

There was a hint of smile in his voice.

"So, that's what it is all about? I haven't been demonstrating enough of my appreciation of your efforts..."

"It's not about appreciation. It's just that ... I think that..."

"Go on, Branka, don't leave it there."

"I think... a part of you is still there, fallen under the machine gun fire back in Bohmerwald...."

 _Stay away_ , his suddenly alert eyes seemed to ask her, _Keep off this ground. Achtung. Minen._

"Sometimes it seems as if you hate me for saving your life when you were prepared to die... and... it's rather hard to stomach."

His face was still. Yet, when he spoke, there was no resentment - only strange impersonal kindness in his voice.

"I don't hate you, Branka. I never did. It has nothing to do with you at all..."

"Then, what is it? Can't you just tell me?"

A frown. His inward-looking eyes.

"It's more like I'm frustrated. Because don't you see? I've been trying so hard all this time. Yet, everything works against me. These photos on the walls, these books in which I used to search for some ultimate truth, all these people, my mother and father, Wilhelm and Charly... Yes, they have changed... but they are still the same. Still believing... Still hoping for better future..."

"They just love you. That's all," she said hesitantly and felt at once that she should have better kept her mouth shut.

"Oh yes, they do. My mother loves her little son. Wilhelm and Charly love Friedhelm, dem Bücherwurm.  My father despises that same Friedhelm just because it's been his habit for so long. No one has any idea of what I am now..." He reached into his pocket for a cigarette butt and, having found none, bit on the toothpick.

"I love you. And I know what you are."

"That's what you think."

Something bright and dangerous flashed in the depth of his eyes only to give way to the lackluster grey.

"We've gone a long way, haven't we? I do sometimes think it was a mistake to bring you here. It was dangerous for you and  - how should I put it? - somewhat selfish of me.  But then again, I wanted you to be safe. Considering your story, going to Germany is not the worst case scenario for you. Otherwise, you might have eventually been shot down by your fellow countrymen... But now... Don't you see for yourself there is nothing more I can give to you? Nothing I can give to all of you? I am through with pretending for everyone's sake that I am a happily recovering veteran."

She was not even particularly surprised. As if she had been expecting for this to come. Only something was still painfully throbbing inside her chest. She could not keep bitterness out of her voice.

"I see how it is now between us... It has all come down to taking and giving. What am I for you after all? Your creditor waiting for your debt to be paid?"

He scowled slightly and shook his head,

"I don't think I have enough cash on my account, so to say. I'd already been a bankrupt long before we met."

"So, what are we going to do?"

"Time and chance will take care of everything, don't you think so?"

She felt anger swelling in her,

"What's the point of living like we do though?"

"There is none," he answered as-a-matter-of-fact, "People f**, have babies, go to war, and die. God forbid we have children but if we do, they will also f**, have babies, go to yet another war, and die, and so, we are all doomed to spin around. One cannot avoid the system. It is always either go with the flow, or end everything. I've tried both. Many times. Aber ich lebe noch[27]..."

"This is not all there is about life. It's - just as Wilhelm has told you - so much more than that."

He shrugged,

"Good for you and for Wilhelm."

 _You are wrong_ , she wanted to scream at him, _you are so wrong. There is always something worth living for. Just because we can no longer see the point of all of this, it does not mean that there is none. Life in itself is meaningful. Nothing is lost while we have this present moment... This stupid, ordinary, treacherous,  guilty, and antiheroic present._

Yet, everything has already been said between them.

_There is nothing more I can give to you._

***

The table in the living room had already been cleared off all the dishes. Branka heard the water running and cups tinkling quietly in the kitchen.

As usual in the evening, Wilhelm was alone in the room.  Buried in the books on economics and law.

She sat next to him and for a while watched his straight shoulders and his deeply concentrated face. The fine looks of a Roman statue. So unlike his brother's softer features.

The straight lines in his notebook. Even their handwriting was different.

"Wilhelm, aber warum[28]?"

He looked up absent-mindedly.

"Was meinst du[29]?"

She merely wanted to crack a joke. Something light. _How come your father gets the bedroom while your mom basically lives in the kitchen?_ or _What are we going to do once you and Charly get married? We'll need a schedule of the days and times we are going to use Friedhelm's creaky bed._

Instead, she suddenly said,

"You both have been in the army. You've even served longer than Friedhelm. Why then?"

_Why do you live while he cannot make himself go on?_

Wilhelm closed the book he had been diligently studying.

"Vielleicht, muss du ihm selbst fragen[30]."

She sighed and rolled her eyes.

He was carefully thinking over her question. Twirling a pencil around his fingers.

"Last year, when I came back, I've been wandering around for days. Without any purpose or destination. Sometimes I would find myself in some ruins or in the middle of the square and couldn't even remember where I was and how I'd gotten there. "

"Was it Charly who had found you and brought you back after all?"

He smiled somewhat sheepishly, and his eyes softened.

"Charly? Friedhelm once told me I'd been a fool to keep her away, and he was so right... I'd say in the end, we've both found one another ... "

That hurt. No one has ever tried to find her. It had always been her trying to find - to reach out - to build a new life out of the debris, shards, and leftovers. For herself and those dear to her.

Václav, Stepanka, and aunt Petra. Friedhelm, Wilhelm, their mother, and even Vatti... No matter how mean the old man was, she'd been looking for and keeping the best cigarette butts for him.

Her Czech and German families.

It was all in vain. All was an illusion.

She had never had a family of her own. Never had a real husband or child. Both men in her life had come to her not because they loved her but because she was the only cockleboat still floating after the shipwreck.

"Danke, Wilhelm."

He looked at her in surprise.

"Was für denn[31]?"

She did not know how to explain. For talking to her like to an equal. For unknowingly telling her the truth about her life.

She shook her head. Her throat was costricted and painful .

"It's nothing. I've got to go to work now."

***

In the beginning of October - only two weeks after the dinner incident - Herr Beckenhauer's prediction had come true. The housing authority representative and two policemen raided their apartment in the late Saturday afternoon.

Fortunately, with the Beckenhauers and Wilhelm at work, and Frau Winter at the backyard, there was no one at home but Vater who would not be bothered even if the bomb had fallen in front of his doorstep.

In the window, Branka saw the policemen coming up the stairs, and when the bell rang, her eyes immediately fell upon Friedhelm. Having come back from one of his mysterious trips, he was just out of the bathroom and stood stock still. The old towel across his shoulder. His hair wet and dripping. The dark reflection of Böhmerwald in his eyes.

For a while, they both mutely listened to Fraulein Krüger chattering away to one of the policemen and old Becknhauer's cloth-eared mumbling.

No time to lose. No need for words.

Trying to keep her face expressionless, Branka joined the two other tenants and boldly met Fraulein Krüger's furtive glance.

"Yes," she answered in response to the policeman's questions, "I am renting a room here. Here is my Ausweiskarte[32]. Yes, I've come from Czechoslovakia. Yes, I do have my work permit. You can see it for yourself. Here is my Arbeitsbuch."

"The Winters? No, I'm not their relative."

Another glance from Fraulein Krüger.

"Yes, it's just the three of them. The parents and their son."

"I've already told you that much, Herr Policeman," Fraulein Krüger was smiling slightly to her thoughts, "What's the point of asking the same question twice?"

"Would you mind us taking a look at the rest of the apartment?"

Branka checked on herself not to gasp.

"Oh come," Fraulein Krüger pouted her lips, "Didn't I just tell you that officer Kolesov had already taken care of that? According to him, the norm is two persons per room plus the common areas, isn't it? There you are. Eight people and four bedrooms."   

"Excuse me, Fraulein," the policeman was already making his way towards the living room.

The girl caught Branka's eye and shrugged her shoulders.

Herr Winter gloomily thrust his papers into the policeman's hands and much to Branka's relief refused to answer any questions.

"Since when a man is held accountable at his own place?" he muttered, and whatever their relations had been, Branka would have gladly kissed him there and then. As well as old Beckenhauer who was so conveniently deaf and could not make head and tails of half of the questions addressed to him.

Predictably, the policeman did not find anyone else in the apartment. The draft through the open window in Friedhelm's bedroom was blowing in the curtains.

After the policemen left empty-handed, Branka - still weak in her knees - turned to her unwanted accomplice.

Fraulein Krüger watched her amusedly. The faint cat-like smile lingering on her painted lips.

"So, our Friedhelm is single after all?" she said, "Good to know. With only a few nice men around nowadays, and officer Kolesov already married, and then anyway, Russia is not my piece of cake."

A mist of red rage washed over Branka.

"Don't you dare," she said through her gritted teeth in a strange guttural voice so unlike her own, "If I am after you, no Russian officer will be able to help you."

Fraulein Krüger snorted and drew back.

"Is that all the gratitude I get in return for my favor? I've just lied for the sake of all of you. I didn't have to."

"You've done it for your own sake. Didn't want them to come across the liquor and cigarette storage in your room, did you? I doubt your officer would have liked his girlfriend's little secrets."

Fraulein Krüger's eyes narrowed.

"You're a fine one to talk. I am not deaf or blind, and I could smell something fishy right away on the day I moved in. Your sweetheart is about to get himself in trouble one day. That much I can tell."

"Why don't we both mind our own business then and keep our knowledge to ourselves?"

"You are so bad at striking a bargain," the girl was openly laughing now, "You should take some lessons from Friedhelm. He's much better at that."

As Branka stared at her, Fraulein Krüger's face lost its semblance to a pretty kitten muzzle and became more hungry cat-like, "You didn't think I've been keeping silence for you to enjoy your family bliss, did you?"

One more bitter pill to swallow without complaints.

Branka slowly went back to their quarters.

Herr Winter was still standing in the living room - leaning on the cabinet. Sipping cognac that Frau Winter had been keeping out of his sight.

Branka wanted to pass by, but it was the first time ever that the two of them were in the same room without anyone else present. That, and the fact that just half an hour ago, it would have taken only a word from him to bring down his son's conspiracy. One word only, and yet, he had said nothing.

"The doctor said you shouldn't consume any alcohol," she broke off both embarrassed and  strangely discontented.

He neither responded nor looked at her.

She sighed in frustration.

"Herr Winter, I know you don't like me, and the feeling is reciprocal. Still though, it was rather rude of me to talk to you like I did, so I apologize for that..."

There, it was almost done now. For Friedhelm's sake more than for her own.

 "I know you'd never agree to make peace with me, but still... I just wanted to thank you for what you've just done..."

She again broke off. What was about this man that was so unsettling? She was suddenly sorry for Friedhelm. What it must have been like growing up with a father like that?

Herr Winter finally turned to her. Watching her as if she were a fly in his soup. His curt response strangely echoed Fraulein Krüger's words.

"I haven't done it for you."

He shuffled back to his bedroom. His back straight, and his lower jaw stubbornly set.

In spite of everything, she caught herself smiling somewhat sadly and not unkindly. She had a good reason to.

***

Herr Winter died on October 22. Six days after Nuremberg executions. Two days after the first post-war local and regional elections in which the Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands[33] supported by the Soviets had come out victorious in the eastern part of Germany.

On that day, there was no one in the apartment except deaf old Beckenhauer and young Beckenhauer who had been taking a nap after his night shift at the factory.

Beckenhauer the junior told them that only half-awake, he had heard some noise and then a thump, but then, everything had been quiet again.

Just back from the store, Frau Winter first saw the opened door to Friedhelm's bedroom, the collapsed bookshelf, and the pile of books lying on the floor.

Then, as she came closer, she noticed her husband's outstretched hand amidst the books...

Everyone had something to hold responsible for this death.

The young Beckenhauer was blaming it on his afternoon nap.  

Frau Winter cursed herself for leaving her husband alone.

The practical Fraulein Krüger noticed the rusty nails the bookshelf had been hanging on.

The doctor registered the massive heart failure.

The four young people - the two brothers and their girlfriends - did not make any guesses. They knew for sure.

Vater was but a wrecked monument to the Third Reich and the once beautiful dream of Deutschland über alles[34]. The monument was bound to collapse sooner or later.

Only one of the four would ask himself, "Why did it happen in my room? Why by my bookshelf?"

Only one of the four would have an answer but she  wisely chose to keep it to herself.

 

[1] privates

[2] Allied Military Currency

[3] Trouble is never far-off (Russian)

[4] grope me

[5] Little soldier

[6] I've known that for more than a year.

[7] treasure hunting

[8] Unofficial name for Humboldt University

[9] Stay calm. It's only me.

[10] I am sorry

[11] Finally here!

[12] Otto, we have some meat for today. The girls and Wilhelm...

[13] Who had been rummaging my bureau?

[14] What do you mean, Father?

[15] You should be ashamed of yourselves. Just for a piece of meat...

[16]  The horse meat, daddy, nothing more but the horse meat

[17] How can you even say such things?

[18] Such a bad luck

[19] My God, what's the matter?

[20] nonsense

[21] How much longer? Can't you understand?

[22] F... life (Czech)

[23] Hey! (Czech)

[24] Sky (German)

[25] sky (Czech)

[26] Woman clearing away the rubble

[27] I still live

[28] Why?

[29] What do you mean?

[30] Maybe, you should ask him yourself?

[31] What for?

[32] ID

[33] The Socialist Unity Party of Germany

[34] The first words of the anthem: Germany over all


	5. Im Netz - In the Spider's Web

**Danke, Kate, für deine schöne und inspirierende Bewertung!**

**Thank you to everyone who's been reading, commenting, and liking this story.**

 Sorry for the long wait. This was the hardest chapter to write, and once you read it, you'll know why. Enjoy :)

 

**Brief historical background**

**Very heavy on terminology, yet necessary for understanding of this particular chapter**

In 1946 - 1949, in the Soviet sector of Berlin and the rest of the eastern part of Germany, the control over the population was gradually increasing. A complex system of secret police began to evolve under Deutsche Verwaltung des Innerns [DVdI](German Administration of the Interior) that was controlled by the Soviet Military Administration. Officially, DVdI dealt with denazification and investigation of war crimes. Unofficially, the department also had long-range plans including identification of anticommunist groups and individuals, espionage in the western sector, etc. The secret police agents usually worked alongside regular police forces (Volkspolizei) in the Criminal Investigation Department and local police stations. The informants for the police were often recruited among the local population who was promised some material and social benefits or simply forced to cooperate. Later on, in 1950, this system would further evolve into the well-known Stasi (Ministerium für Staatssicherheit or the Ministry for State Security). On the other side, American and British intelligence forces were also setting up their own system of espionage as early as 1945 (for example, Berlin Operations Base or BOB). Their focus was on obtaining information about the Soviet military development as well as the general situation in the eastern territories. Their agents - implanted into the black market and public institutions in East Berlin - were often former military members or even former members of the National Socialist party. Both, the East and West, went as far as to frequently use double agents.

**Some geographical locations**

Berlin-Karlshorst - the headquarters of the Soviet Military Administration

Luisenstraße - the Soviet Central Commandant's office

Keibelstraße - Central Police headquarters in East Berlin

 

**December 1946 - March 1947**

 

Weihnachten came in cold whirls of blizzard. The Soviets did not think much of this holiday. Unlike the boisterous New Year, its quiet joy did not hold the promise of a better tomorrow. Yet, for the post-war Germany, the taste of homemade gingerbread cookies and the smell of the Tannenbaum resin was all the more pungent for the memories it had brought. The distant memories of half-forgotten faces and songs.

Some were lucky for they had more reasons for celebration than their memories. For Charly and the Winter brothers, Viktor Goldstein's letter - the first letter ever since he had gone to the USA - was the highlight of the third evening in a row.

Some were less lucky for their memories were too vivid for enjoying the quiet nostalgia. The day before Christmas, the two widows - Frau Winter and Frau Beckenhauer - stayed up in the kitchen long after the clock had struck midnight. Talking about their beloved home tyrants who would - alas - never again disturb their sleep by their loud snoring.

Some let the sleeping dogs lie. Fraulein Krüger mostly kept to herself these days. Branka spent her nights at the hospital, and no faces or voices from the past disturbed her in her slumber.

On Christmas eve, the Winters and the Beckenhauers gathered in the living room around the puny fir tree and the puny rabbit just out of the oven. Fraulein Krüger's seat remained empty.

"That's right. Her Russian admirer doesn't approve of religious holidays," Mrs. Beckenhauer chuckled, "Haven't seen him for a while by the way."

"Did our Fraulein get dumped?" her son wondered.

"Maybe, his Russian Frau claimed her husband back?"

"Leave the poor girl alone," said Frau Winter, "She doesn't look well as of lately. Spends all day in her room."

"This 'poor' girl took over your dear husband's study and burnt half of the pots in the kitchen."

"Just be glad it's only her and not a hoard of villagers with a pack of crying kids," the old Beckenhauer screeched.

"I'll call her to join us," good-hearted Charly swiftly leapt from her seat, "It's Christmas after all."

Friedhelm shook his head ever so slightly but did not do anything to stop her. As Branka met his eyes, he scowled in response to her silent question.

"What? What's wrong now?" his look seemed to say, and she swiftly turned away.

She had expected her first post-war Christmas in the family circle would be warmer than that.

 

***

 

For quite a while after the Nuremberg executions, the newsreel with footage from the trials and concentration camps, had been screened in the cinemas all around Berlin. There were compulsory viewings for university students, hospital workers, and other state employees.

Branka could have gotten away. She was not a German after all, and they would have hardly punished her for non-compliance. Yet, she went with everyone else since she did not want to leave Charly to deal with this on her own.

The deep silence in the choke-full theater was only occasionally interrupted by someone suppressing their cough or sobbing. Charly's hand felt chilled in Branka's comforting grasp.

 

***

 

It was cold and semi-dark in the apartment when Charly and Branka came home. The electricity was off again, and they had been saving on wood and kerosene.

The two brothers sitting at the round dining table turned to greet the girls, and their faces seemed pale and fuzzy in the dusk.

"Even with the prices on kerosene and oil, it's a bit too extreme, don't you think? You could have lit a candle."

No one responded.

Charly - her wet raincoat still on - ran up to Wilhelm, and as he put his arm around her shoulders, she timidly nuzzled her face against it.

"Have you been to the cinema?"

"Yes," said Charly in a small voice, "I... hardly know now what's worse - having to see all of this, or having no clue that such things could have even existed."

Friedhelm took a long drag on his unlit cigarette butt. This newly acquired habit - common for most German smokers - helped make cigarettes last longer. "So, I am the only one of you who has not yet seen this new production by the Herrenrasse[1] film company."

To a casual observer, his manner of speaking could have seemed mocking and indifferent, but Branka knew better.

"I'd be more discrete about that if I were you."

"Branka, you poor thing, did they make you go there as well?"

"No one made me. I went on my own free will."

"Did you? So, how was that? Did you enjoy the show?  Say, did we give Walt Disney a run for his money?"

"Friedhelm, this is the limit really!" A worried frown appeared on Wilhelm's face.

"Haven't you noticed that we've already crossed all the limits long ago? Sometime in November of 1938[2]."

"What's going on with you today? Charly and me have come for a quiet family dinner. Enough of this morbidness..."

The kitchen was dark and quiet. Frau Winter had not been feeling well ever since her husband's death, the Beckenhauers were at work, and Fraulein Krüger had never been the one for cooking. Branka lit the stove and warmed up sad leftovers of their morning soup.

"Bitte zum Essen, meine Herren[3]."

Her hands still shook from anger, and she spilled some of the soup on the tablecloth.

"Don't take it personally, Branka. It's only the collective guilt complex kicking in and making my stomach go in a knot."

"Friedhelm, do we really have to discuss your indigestion now?" Her attempt of joking failed. No one laughed.

"Speaking of indigestion, Emma has tried to poison herself today," Friedhelm said as-a-matter-of-fact.

Charly gasped but Branka was somewhat puzzled.

"Who is this Emma?"

"Fraulein Krüger," Wilhelm explained.

Branka looked askance at the door of Herr Winter's former study and then, back at Friedhelm. So, this catty girl - this biggest torn in her side for the past few months - got what she deserved. No, Branka could not and would not pretend that she cared one bit.

"How did it happen?" Charly asked quietly.

"Apparently, she took some rat poison. Not a pretty sight. She passed out in the bathroom and was sick all over bathroom sink. We had to knock out the door - the old Beckenhauer got all confused and decided it was the Soviets bombing us all over again. He thought of nothing better than attempting his escape through the window.  At his age, such exploits don't usually end well... So, we had to call for an ambulance... for both, Emma and him."

"Poor girl. Why would she do that?" Charly too turned to look at Herr Winter's study, "Hope she's going to be okay. Did they take her to our hospital? I'll be checking on her."

"Don't you worry about her. Who has ever heard of a viper dying of poison?"

"Hi pot, meet kettle."

Her heart sank.

"What did you just say, Friedhelm?"

"I think you heard me, Branka"

Friedhelm looked her full in the face. His eyes were suddenly sharp and very cold. For some reason, she was reminded of Herr Winter.

A hush came over the room. Wilhelm slightly raised his brows but did not say anything. Charly looked extremely uncomfortable, but bravely faked lightness to ease the tension between the diners.

"Branka, I think we can tell them some good news, can't we?"

"Is there such a thing as good news now?" Wilhelm readily jumped into conversation. A bit too readily to be genuinely interested.

"Branka can say good-bye to the night pots and clysters. She's going to be the secretary starting from the next week. Responsible for the patients' files and the doctors' records."

"Glad for you, Branka."

"The supervisor has told me only today," Branka murmured trying not to meet eyes with anyone, "It was quite unexpected. It appears the administration wants someone who knows Russian, and well, I guess, they decided because I'm a Czech ..."

"You don't have to offer excuses. We're all glad for you," Charly said enthusiastically, "Right, Friedhelm?"

"Yes," he responded tonelessly, "Finally, someone in the family with a decent permanent job."

"Don't you count Wilhelm? Once he graduates..."

"IF he graduates..."

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you heard?" Friedhelm grinned, "They are now arresting students for the fascist activities as they say but with no actual evidence except the fact that these students have been strongly opposed to the Socialist Unity Party. The former Oberleutnant might well seem a likely candidate to be involved in... ahem... the underground fascist movement..."

"Friedhelm, shut up," the veins on Wilhelm's forehead were suddenly visible, "People do not talk about these things anymore. It's no laughing matter."

"Do you see me laughing? I'm actually quite concerned, and if you were to ask me, I'd say take a year off your studies. Until everything calms down."

"You'd better worry about yourself. Should I remind you that my documents are in order, and I have a work permit?"

"Yes, you have your permit. Just watch out so that you don't end up working somewhere in the Soviet camps."

"What are you talking about?"  Charly grew pale, "These are only the rumors."

"The well-known fact about rumors is that sooner or later they come true," Friedhelm finally lit his cigarette, took a deep drag, and passed it to Wilhelm.

"You can't complain though," Wilhelm said, "They say Americans make everyone fill in that 131-question Fragebogen which is much worse than..."

"Don't you worry. Circus Aljosha[4] will have us where they want us to be with or without the Fragebogen."

"You've always been somewhat pessimistic."

"What would you say about the young Beckenhauer then?"

"What's wrong with him?" Charly asked.

"Didn't you know? He went to the western sector. They used to have some relatives there. Was arrested for his expired interzone pass."

"He was out the next day. It does not matter much," Wilhelm absent-mindedly crushed the cigarette between his fingers.

"So far so good. Mark my words though. In a few years, we'll have a ghetto in this part of Germany, and Berlin in particular."

"Are you deliberately trying to provoke all of us, Friedhelm? Das kann nicht sein[5].  Half of the population works in the western sector and comes back home only at nighttime. These passes are mostly for the Allies. They have nothing to do with the locals."

"The Soviets spared my life once, Friedhelm," Charly added quietly.

"Did I say anything against the Soviets? On the contrary, I think Wilhelm should follow your example and brush up on his Russian."

"And yet, to listen to you, we should move to the west as soon as possible."

"Wie du willst[6]... What I actually mean is that the Soviets and Americans have a lot more in common than you think. Just like all victors, both naturally think about their own benefit rather than the benefit of the defeated nation. Our complaints and wishes don't count either here or there."

"Was ist passiert? Wo würdet ihr gehen[7]?"

They fell silent upon the approaching shuffle of the night slippers.

"Nichts, Mutter. Gehst du schlafen.[8]"

Frau Winter sighed.

"My dear boys, I only wish I could somehow understand what's going on with our country, and how to help you all. My Ernst is gone, and I'm useless now. I'm only slowing you down."

Wilhelm turned away. Friedhelm scowled slightly. Charly - too distressed and worried for Wilhelm - hardly noticed their mother speaking. These talks had become all too familiar to them.

Branka hesitated and then hugged the woman. In the dusk, she resembled aunt Petra more than ever.

"Mutti, you're already doing more than enough. We would all have starved if it weren't for your cooking. Don't you worry about anything. "

She shot a look at Fridhelm, and he reluctantly took over.

 

***

 

Fraulein Krüger was let out of the hospital only in the end of March. Very pale, her hair uncurled and undyed, her face make-up free, and her collarbones protruding, she packed her belongings and left Berlin early in the morning without saying good-bye to anyone, even Charly.

Branka decided to overlook the fact that Friedhelm was the one who helped carry the suitcases and saw the girl to the train station. However, she made a mental check and set her mind on not declining the recovering Russian soldiers' advances from now on.

She did not get an opportunity for this decision to be put into effect...

 

***

"Kameradin... Fraulein... "

Such a strong accent.

"Bitte, you can speak Russian to me. I've been learning Russian for quite a while by now, and besides, Czech and Russian are somewhat similar."

"They are, aren't they?"

However, the man did not jump at her invitation.

His face was round, freckled, and homely. If it were not for his uniform and the worried look of her supervisor who - upon receiving a phone call -  had told her to drop everything and go straight to the police station by Luisenstraße, one might think the man sitting at the desk in front of her was no more than some old gossiper.

"Tell me please, how is that? You are a Czech from the border territory[9], aren't you? Living alone in Berlin, without any relatives."

"Do I really need to answer? It's rather private..."

His face expression was slightly amused at her peevishness. _Where do you think you are, girl?,_ it seemed to say, _It is not up to you to decide what questions are pertinent or not, and your private life might not be so private after all._

He did not respond anything but he kept watching her with a calm confidence of a man who knew he was in his right to ask questions.

"I've come here after my common-law husband," she said reluctantly trying to navigate between the truth and tale, "We were hoping to get married for real but for a while, it hasn't been going all that well between us."

He raised one brow.

"Must have been tough on you and your... ahem... common-law husband. Is he Russian? What unit is he in? We usually do not condone such irresponsible behavior in our soldiers."

Some German women might perhaps testify that quite the contrary was the case. Yet, Branka wisely kept her opinion to herself.

"He's a Czech. He's is in trade business and a member of the Czech Communist party," she was frantically recollecting everything that Ludvik had told her during their brief meeting at the hospital, "I hope you'd forgive me but I would like to leave his name out of this. He'd have been very upset if he knew I talked about the matter with a stranger."

_There you go. Take the bait or spit it out if you wish. You won't be able to prove that I am lying unless you interview all Czech tradesmen currently residing in Berlin._

The man let out a tiny smirk.

"What about your relatives back in Czechoslovakia? Don't you miss them?"

"Yes, I do. They were murdered by the SS. My mother, my older brother and his wife. I barely escaped with my brother's child, and she died a few weeks later of pneumonia while we had been hiding in the forest."

It felt strange talking about aunt Petra and Václav like that. In spite of herself, her eyes watered.

There was a sudden glimpse of understanding and solidarity in his eyes.

"They gunned my family down back in Byelorussian SSR..."

He let out a heavy sigh and leafed through the papers on his desk. The graying whiskers and tired face of a government official who has too much work to do and too little time for compassion towards other people or himself for that matter.

His tone was yet again business-like.

"Are you living on your own then?"

"I am renting a room in the apartment together with the landlady and a few other tenants."

"Does the landlady have children?"

That's what it was all about... Now what?... She wanted to name Wilhelm only but there was something in her interlocutor's eyes... He was not unlike a cat waiting on a mouse. She had to resort back to her half-truth.

"She has one son, and then, there is her son's friend who often stays overnight."

"What is his name?"

"The landlady's son?"

"No. It says here his name is Wilhelm Winter, Oberleutenant. I am more interested in his friend."

"Wilhelm as well. They are namesakes."

"Ah I see... such a popular name..."

"Yes, they said it's to honor their Kaiser or whoever he was."

"What unit did this Wilhelm the second serve in?"

"I can't really tell you. I don't interact with him much."

"But you surely must have seen something out of the corner of your eye. A uniform, or medals, or even some documents?"

"Even if there is something they're hiding, they aren't going to disclose it to the stranger like me, are they?"

That was thoughtless of her. He might get angry with her impertinence.

There was no other way around but to keep her cool now.

Imitating a good conspirator in some spy film, she whispered,

 "Do you think they might be war criminals? My, I would have never thought... But then, I've seen the newsreel the other day. Fascinating how they've managed to capture that guy... what was his name?"

Her interrogator frowned. Was she overreacting, or he was simply tired of listening to all the wild rumors from overly zealous informants?

As he caught her staring, that sympathetic affable look in his eyes came back.

"You strike me as quite observant. Can't you try and remember? The human memory has a very intricate mechanism. Sometimes we might be capable of keeping track of very miniscule details in our mind that later prove significant."

She bit her lip trying to fake extreme concentration.

"The landlady's son is a student.  He always scribbles something in his notebooks. I looked at one of them out of curiosity. Mostly numbers and terms. I couldn't make head and tails...."

"What about his friend?" the man interrupted.

"His friend? He's pretty much your ordinary fellow. Keeps hitting on girls. Doesn't have any job. He can spend his whole day laying on the coach and reading books."

For a while, the man was doodling in his notebook. She saw a glimpse of hope for herself and Friedhelm. Perhaps, he might be satisfied, and no questions would follow. Her hopes were dashed as her interrogator suddenly pulled a photo out of his folder and thrust it into her hands.

"Here. Take a look. Does this fellow resemble anyone you know?"

Unsuspecting and unknowing, she squinted at the blurry amateur photo.

 Something stabbed her straight into her chest. Prickled with a long invisible needle. Her ears ringing. Her heart plummeting down and then up. Beating in her temples.   _Pane Bože_... _Požehnaná Matka_...[10] Help me remember how to breathe again....

The scaffold. Five people in a row.White shirts. One of them is a woman. Still alive. The horizontal bar under their feet about to be pulled away.

The soldier holding the rope half-turned away from the camera. His face was half-shadowed by his helmet.  Yet, she would have known him among a thousand.  His thin arms and narrow shoulders. His scowl. The delicate lines of his mouth.

The man hemmed, and she checked on herself. How long had she been sitting here and gaping at the photo in complete silence with him watching?

_Come on, Branka... look up at him. Tear yourself away from this filthy photo. Come on... It should be no harder than plugging your ears and shutting your eyes - shutting off your heart - against the truth all this time..._

"Alles in Ordnung[11]?"

His inquisitive stare.

She gasped, "No... I am not okay. They killed so many people in my village in this way."

He frowned.

"You must forgive me. I have to make sure... So, what do you say? Does this fellow look like your Wilhelm the second?"

She breathed hard. Panting. Her heart beating somewhere in her throat. Then, on a wild impulse, she swiped the print off his desk and stamped on it.

"Are you out of your mind? Haven't you heard me? Such as him were killing off my friends and relatives. If I had recognized him, be sure, I'd have strangled him with my own hands!"  

The man took hold of her elbow and drew her aside. Carefully yet firmly. Then, he quickly picked up the photo.

She noticed almost indifferently that her attempt at smudging the face on the photo to the point of no recognition was unsuccessful. Perhaps, it was all for the better . The man might have gotten suspicious. And anyway, they might have more copies in their files.

"I am sure you understand that we have a cause. In my department, we make sure that no one escapes justice. Day and night, we are searching for the war criminals... For instance, the records in our files indicate that this handsome young fellow showing off to the camera might very well be the younger son of your landlady. The right-hand man for Standartenführer Hiemer. Hiemer's unit was targeting Polish partisans and civilians. They were particularly ruthless. Killing off everyone - women, teens, and children. Not to mention them tracking down those few Jews who had managed to escape the camps. What do you say about the photo now? Still the face doesn't ring a bell?"

"The landlady's younger son is... dead, as far as I know. I've never seen him. So, it's hard to tell."

He watched her with a peculiar face expression. A mixture of suspicion and sympathy.

"Here, drink some water. You might feel better."

She wanted to knock the glass out of his hands more than anything.

No way... _We have a cause_. _We are on the same side._

"I do apologize...  It's just so hard on me. Day by day I am trying to forgive these people. Trying to persuade myself there is some goodness in them. There must be... My landlady... her son Wilhelm... The whole nation can't be bad. And then... there's always something to remind me... The newsreel. Now this photo."

His eyes were cold now. Shooting through her like two bullets.

"I am surprised you are still looking for excuses for them. Didn't the way your family had died teach you nothing?"

"My landlady has nothing to do with this."

"What about her son? The one who is a murderer. The henchman to the SD. Would you like to have a look at some other photos that were left after Hiemer? Would you like to see some of the other victims? There... and there..."

He was casually tossing the black and white prints at her, and she was crouching in her seat. Covering her face as the photos were falling onto her lap and on the floor.

Dead children. Hanged men. Women with their faces bloody and their hair flowing.

"Still the man's face doesn't ring a bell?" he asked in the same smooth slightly bored voice, "Still see no evil, hear no evil?"

She suddenly remembered.

_The SS men's office back in her village. The uniformed man in front of her. Shouting. Holding his pistol to the side of her head. Then, speaking softly almost lovingly only to start screaming again triggered off by some innocent gesture or even her furtive glance._

_"Bitte, let me go..."_

_"Come, tell us the truth. Where are your husband and his men hiding? Why are you covering them? They didn't think of protecting you. Went away. Left their women...  Do you want to see your mother burnt alive?..Do you want to see me blasting your daughter's brains out?"_

"Пожалуйста, не надо[12]. Why are you doing this to me? I'm not even a German. Please let me go."

She hardly realized she said this words in his language.

The interrogator sighed. Whether it was a sigh of frustration or relief she could not tell.

"Where would you go?"

"Back to work... The patients are waiting," her voice was trembling as if she were a child flogged by her strict father.

"And after work?" he watched her with visible compassion now.

"I... I don't know," she suddenly realized it was true. She had no idea what to do with herself. One thing she knew for sure. She could not go back. How would she look into Frau Winter's eyes? How would she stand sleeping in the same bed with Friedhelm now?

As if reading her mind, the man said softly.

"Let us not make a bigger mess of things than needed. There is a good saying in Russian. Не наломать бы дров. How do you say it in German? _Das Kind_  muss nie  _erst in den Brunnen fallen..._[13] _Do you have any such saying in Czech? No? That's a pity. Anyway, I know exactly how you feel, and what you are going to do... You'll want to move out, am I right?"_

_She nodded unable to speak._

_"Well, Branka, may I call you so? After all, I am old enough to be your father. As I said, I understand how hard it is for you. Living among people who might smile at you and seem nice but for whom you'll always be second-rate. Always an impostor. Those who have once been defeated can never love those who have bested them."_

 He was right. This man was right... Friedhelm had never told her he loved her. _Ich muss dir vielleicht dankbar sein_... Charly had never been open with her. Wilhelm had been keeping to himself. Even Frau Winter...

One part of her was dying to flee, and another part wanted to throw her arms around this fatherly-looking little man's neck, confess her guilt, and cry on his shoulder. What was the man saying now?

"You'll go back. You'll keep living the same way you are used to. Just being a bit more mindful of your surroundings. Who visits and is getting treated at the hospital you work at? Any guests from the Western sector? Any foreigners? Black marketers? For how long and how often are they are staying there? Any letters? Any papers? That sort of things...  I'll be meeting you here in this office. Let's say once per two weeks..."

She moved in her chair to shake off the spell. Hardly believing what she had just heard.

"Komrade, I don't want to do this. I wouldn't feel comfortable. What if I go ahead and just move out and find different lodgings?"

He smiled good-naturedly.

"Branka, you're a reasonable woman. People are all the same everywhere. Another landlady might also have her own family history of murderers and Nazis.  Besides, I don't think you quite realize... There is an infinite pool of possibilities. For instance, we can look into your papers more carefully. You wouldn't want to lose your residence and work permit, would you? Wouldn't want to be arrested? You need to stay safe and sound for... ahem... your Czech common-law husband, don't you? Or is there anything else that's keeping you in Berlin? My instinct tells me there must be some very good reason."

The round-faced freckled man sitting opposite her was still smiling. Collecting the photos back into his folder.

"Remember, Branka, I'll be expecting you. Same time. Same place. Two weeks from now. We need a list of names. As well as the schedule of who - when - how often - for how long. Alles ist klar?[14]"

She nodded again.

"Умница[15]. Here is to reward you for performing your civil duty and to help you make the right decision."

He placed three ration coupons in front of her. She briefly glanced at them. Category I. Each of them enough for a three-day ration of meat, bread, and coffee. For such amount, Frau Beckenhauer would have to work for twelve hours a day for the whole week... 

"May I go now?"

"Just one more thing, Branka... Remember the saying that I told you. Don't do anything you might later regret."

She laughed bitterly.

"I wonder what that might be? In my opinion, I've already done quite a few things I'll later regret."

_Took my thirty pieces of silver up front._

_Just saved the murderer. Yet again._

"I appreciate your spirit," the man did not smile though, "I'll let you use your best judgment on what the consequences might be."

 

***

 

She stumbled out of his office and down the staircase. Holding onto the railing. Outside, above the ruins and dark roofs, the low grey clouds were swirling and sinking to the ground. About to stifle her.

No, she could not lose control over herself now. What if she was being watched?

She could not go home either. It was unthinkable. Not now. Not today... Back to work then. Finding a dark corner... Spending the night  somewhere on the hospital cot... Then, there would be another day. She would figure something out. At the very worst, Judas would always find a tree to hang herself on.

 

***

 

"Branka, was ist los? Du siehst ganz verstört aus[16]."

Charly's worried eyes were clear and deep like two lakes on a sunny day.

"Are you hurt? Do you feel sick?"

_Yes, I am hurt, Charly. I am hurting all over. Only for a very different reason than you are thinking of. I am heavy with my guilt as a woman might be heavy with child._

"Quatsch! Let's go have a smoke."

"But Branka, you don't smoke, do you?.."

Yet, Charly followed her without questioning.

The shrubbery among the rubble and grimy remnants of the wall at the backyard. A few pale leaves fluttering on the black hoarfrost branches.

Charly... Large clear eyes. Her face of an icon. Could it be that Charly had known all along? What about Wilhelm? Were they all in cahoots to keep her - Branka's - rose-colored glasses on?

What was that what Friedhelm had told her the other day?

_"No one has any idea of what I am now..."_

_"I love you. And I know what you are."_

_"That's what you think."_

Then, it dawned upon her.

 They were all clueless... Frau Winter. Wilhelm. Charly. Even herself... She knew he had been a witness to the war crimes. She had learnt to deal with this. All soldiers had to obey the orders after all. Yet, it had hardly dawned upon her that he was the one who had been committing these crimes. What was it that the Russian had said? The right-hand man to some SD butcher?

The ground gave way beneath her feet, and Charlotte had to catch her from falling.

"Branka, I'll call the doctor. I'll be right back..."

"I am fine. Stay where you are!"

"Were you at the police station all this time? What was it about?"

The cigarette butt was burning Charly's fingers now but she took no heed of this.

No, she could not confide in Charly. Too dangerous. Yet, Branka had to warn her somehow...

"Charly, please... listen to me. You have to go home... I mean to the Winters. Right after your shift is over. I'll be staying at the hospital overnight. Probably for tomorrow as well... You go there and you tell Friedhelm and Wilhelm - make sure Frau Winter or our neighbors are not around... You tell them that I've been called in, and that I've seen some war photos, and I've been asked some questions about my acquaintances who had served in the army. Tell this to Friedhelm and Wilhelm. No one else but them. They will know. "

Charly's eyes widened.

"It's about Wilhelm? Nicht wahr?[17] Something about the penal battalion."

"It does not matter who it is all about. Just make sure you keep your poker face for everyone but Friedhelm and Wilhelm."

Charly's face was anything but poker-like now. She was biting her lip and looked like a child who had been left alone in the dark for far too long.

For an instant, Branka felt satisfied that there was someone else to share her terror. Yet, it was such ignominious satisfaction. It was not worth that.

"Take it easy. Wilhelm has nothing to do with the photos."

"Then, I don't quite understand..." The soft glow of relief was lightening  Charly's eyes now, while her lips still kept the imprint of the recent fear.

"You don't have to understand anything. Just remember what I've told you. Once you already let down that Jew doctor or whoever she was. So, you don't want yet another person to suffer, do you?"

For just a moment, Charly looked hurt, yet, she did not say anything.

Branka was so tired. Tired of everything and everyone. Most of all, of this German Holy Mary who had gone through the hell-fire of war and betrayal and somehow managed to keep her inner light intact, while her - Branka's - conscience had been hanged long ago.

Charly asked no more questions. Just stared at her, and her face was like the surface of a lake on a windy day - with the sun patches and shades of clouds coming and going.

Suddenly she said, " Viktor! I must find the way to contact him as soon as possible."

"What for?" Branka replied indifferently.

Charly's eyes glowered with obstinacy, "He'll testify. Friedhelm once saved his life back in Poland... Branka...Why are laughing?"

She did not. Her lips were trembling, and what came out of her mouth resembled dog's whimpering.

"Since when does the word of a dirt-poor Jew who is not even living in Germany anymore account for anything?"

"Don't! You of all people should know..."

"Yes, I do know, Charlotte! I do! Friedhelm was right... It's a vicious circle. Nothing ever changes but slogans and names. People will always be at each other's throats. Always betraying each other. Always..."

Choking on her hurt and frustration.

Charly's hand touching her shoulder. Very lightly. As if she were yet another of Krankenschwester Charlotte's Verletzten[18]. 

"Do you want to borrow the keys from my room? My roommate had gone to the province to trade some of her things for food, so no one will disturb you there. Will be better than at the hospital."

Branka's throat tightened.

"Danke, Charly."

 

***

 

The uneven row of the street lamps. No stars in the sky. The moon shining dimly through the haze of the clouds. The snow drizzle. The black battlement and shadowy contours of the ruins. The shadows of the passers-by. The shadows of the military men.

She was plodding towards Alexanderplatz. Stopping by cafés. Unseeingly peering at the late-night frequenters.  They were calling out to her in both German and Russian.

Her chin tucked inside her collar. The scarf covering her face.

She was walking further and further to the west towards the river Spree.

The black water. The broken railing of the bridge. The patrol men.

She turned back towards the rickety turrets of Nikolai-kirche.

Somewhere nearby several voices were trippingly belting out a popular song.

"Ехал я из Берлина по дороге прямой...[19]"

The rubble was crunching under her feet as she was making her way inside what was left of the little church.

It was dark within the walls. The bricks were covered with a thin layer of snow. The same dark clouds were moving far above her head - clearly visible through the broken beams and rafters.

She found a spot in the corner and crouched there. Huddled against the wind. Her hands were freezing inside her torn thin gloves.

Should she go to Charly's place? Should she head home?...Where was her home though?  Ехал я из Берлина по дороге прямой... I was driving down the straight road from Berlin...

Her home was not in Berlin. Neither was it in Czechoslovakia.

Neither here nor there.

She had travelled so far to run away from her guilt. Whatever the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve over.

Yet, the guilt had caught up with her, and she felt its icy putrid breathing down her neck. Her guilt and another man's pain.

_"No one has any idea of what I am now..."_

_"I love you. And I know what you are."_

_"That's what you think."_

That's true. She did not know Friedhelm. It was him who had known her through and through all this time. He had never judged her for what she had done, so, how could she be his judge now?

 

***

 

She fell asleep at once. Just as she once used to. Long before the war. Her slumber was deep, and her dreams were sweet. She was dreaming of the ocean with crystal clear and blue water. She had never in her life seen the ocean. Yet, there it was. Washing over her feet. Washing off her traces on the white sand. So cold. So...

She woke up in the midnight darkness and quiet. Her teeth chattering. Her feet numb. Her scarf falling off her head. Her hair covered with ice.

 

***

 

She saw Friedhelm from afar by the light of the street lamp. He sitting on the heap of stones by the entrance to Charly's lodgings, and stood up swiftly as she approached him.

His dark-rimmed eyes and washed-out face. A familiar stranger. Would she even know him if he were to pass by in the crowd of defeated soldiers wearing the same hollow look.

"What are you doing here?"

"Kann ich mit dir bitte reden[20]?"

His voice was hollow too. A bit more hoarse than usual. As if he could indeed read her thoughts and knew that she wanted to be as far from him as possible, preferably on the other side of the earth.

"I'm really tired. I'd like to get some sleep. I have to go to work again tomorrow. Maybe, we could talk some other time."

He smiled his usual self-deprecatory smile.

"Branka, don't give me such lame excuses. I know you a bit better than that. I promise I won't take long."

Shoulder to shoulder, they went up to the top floor and tip toed to Charly's small tidy room at the end of the dark corridor.

No electric light was allowed during the curfew, and that was a relief. She could hid herself in the corner of the room where the light from the candle could not reach.

"How long have you been waiting for me?"

He shrugged.

"I've come here right away after Charly told us everything... Sometime after eight. The landlady said no one was in. She was clearly not happy with my visit, so, after that, I was mostly roaming the streets around Alexanderplatz. When I was coming back, I heard a woman scream and almost got myself in trouble. I thought it was you... but it appears I merely disturbed some pimp and his girl."

"Is that where you've got this from?"

As she reached out and touched the fresh bruise on his chin, he turned away.

This movement reminded her of the image on that photo.

The five glaringly-white shirts in a row on the grey background.

How? How could she ever connect these two in her mind: this blue-eyed boy whose warm body had been molding into hers every single night and who knew how to make her own body sing just like a pianist can play his instrument  - and that slaughter man pulling the rope on the photo.

"Warum hast du mich nicht erzählt[21]?"

"Well, somehow it didn't come up naturally in the midst of our honey moon vacation in Böhmerwald and then, we had a happy family re-union."

Her hand flew back to his face. The blow landed on his lips, and then, again, across his cheek. Her fingers brushed his eyelashes.

Friedhelm did not retreat. Did not as much as move or raise his hand as she kept showering him with blows full in the face and shoulders. He only breathed in sharply when her fist missed and went in the middle of his chest.

She suddenly remembered the dugout in the forest and the hospital ward. Him laying weak and helpless. And she almost went to pieces. Almost...

The coughing fit gone, he wiped blood off his split lip.

"Now that you blew some steam off and managed not to not injure yourself in the process, let's talk of business..."

She wanted to scream for him to go away, and yet, he was right. There were things more important than this dull pain stabbing her heart.

"How do you think they found out about you? Who could have told them? Do you think they might come to take you in?"

"Slow down, Branka. There is no reason for a panic attack."

"No reason? You should have seen that man, and how he talked about you..."

He proceeded explaining calmly as if the matter did not concern him.

"One of our neighbors probably informed the police that there is an unregistered person living in the apartment. So, that reminded them of me. With all this daily bickering for the electricity limits, this would have happened sooner or later."

"Fraulein Krüger? Of course... this little slimy b**...Yes, that's what she is. I don't care what you had with her."

There was a strange expression in Friedhelm's eyes. A mixture of pity and sadness.

 "Emma is not to blame. They promised they would get her fiancé out of the labor camp in exchange for her services in the night clubs and some other places like the black market. Then, last year in the end of December, she met that man at the Lehrter Station who had served his time in the same camp. It turns out her fiancé died back in summer."

"What about officer Kolesov? And then... wait... I thought she'd been hitting on you all this time."

Friedhelm did not laugh at her suspicious jealousy. He merely shrugged it off.

"I've never had anything with her. The idea of that... Getting into her room and then back into our bed? I wouldn't have wanted to humiliate you or myself. As to Emma... She might have seemed that way, but she was actually very loyal to her fiancé. Stupidly loyal. In that sense, she reminds me a bit of one girl we used to be friends with..."

"How do you know all this about her then?"

"We were in the same circles for a while. Once I sort of saved Emma's neck. That guy at the black market recognized her as the police informant, and she was up for some trouble. That's when she opened up for me. I was actually trying to persuade her to leave Berlin for a while. No one would have bothered to search for such small fry. But she was so very lost."

"So very lost that she actually told on you?"

"She didn't have to. They've already known all there is to know about me."

"What?"

As his words gradually sank in, Branka felt her head spinning, and staggered blindly onto Charly's bed. 

"Branka, think well... If they really wanted to get me, their best bet would have been to come straight to our apartment. Why would they waste their time on questioning you and then letting you go?"

"I don't understand... If they know, as you say, how come you are still walking around? Safe and free?"

"I wouldn't call that safe or free... I'm officially dead after all, and that makes it rather complicated."

He sat on the floor next to her. His face expression blank, and his eyes inquisitive.

"We can discuss my situation later. There are more pressing issues at hand. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to know what exactly you told that guy and what he wanted from you."

"I've told him I don't recognize anyone in the photos. I've also told him that you are Wilhelm's friend, and that you served in the same unit, and that I don't know anything more than that."

"Did you?" he was frowning now, "That wasn't your wisest decision. With these folks, if you want to stay safe, you either lay your cards on the table, or say nothing at all."

She suddenly felt old and wasted.

"Sorry for not consulting you first. There wasn't much time to decide on what to do, you know... with the man at my throat. But of course, now that I think of it, silly me... I should have ratted you out, and yet again prove that I deserve my childhood nickname."

"You wouldn't have ratted anyone out. You would have merely performed your duty by exposing the war criminal. It would have been only fair since yes, you are right, I haven't been really open with you as to what I was up to during the war or after the war for all that matters," he said evenly.

"No," she shivered, "But I could have guessed if it were not for me - like that fellow said - choosing to see no evil, hear no evil."

He made a move as if to comfort her, but as she unconsciously drew back, his face froze.

 "Let's talk no more of that. When they call on you again, you'll just have to stick to the same version. You were only renting the room and had no idea who I was to the family. We're not married or anything. They wouldn't be able to prove your involvement, and they wouldn't really try. I take all responsibility for that. So, that's done and over with. There's something else I wanted to talk to you about," Friedhelm was not looking at her as he was saying this, "Charly said you could stay here for the weekend. Her roommate won't be back until Monday and after that... "

"Not so fast. Just look at you. Perhaps, you'd let me decide on my own where I want to stay, and with whom? Or am I already banned from your apartment?"

Again that almost sympathetic understanding in his eyes.

"It will be easier for you that way. It is not going to be very pleasant back at home. When I am taken in, my mother is bound to cry days and nights, and..."

"This will be the end of her if they get at you..."

"She'll manage. She has Wilhelm and Charly."

"She needs you."

"You've really grown to like her, didn't you?"

"Why shouldn't I? I've grown to like you as well, but that somehow doesn't surprise you."

He sighed.

"Charly and Wilhelm will be happy to help you find new lodgings."

She wanted to tell him that she could not move out anyway. It was no use. Her guilt would find her no matter where she went even if that freckled Russian agent did not.

Instead, she asked.

"Do Charly and Wilhelm know what you have been doing during the war?"

"They might certainly have their guesses, but I did not give them much time for questioning me. When worst comes to worst, the less they know - the less involved they would be considered."

She gave him a crooked smile.

"So, I happen to be the privileged one to share your secret, am I not?"

He winced as if she had just struck him in the chest yet again.

"Es tut mir sehr leid[22]. Now, you understand why I did not want to - shouldn't have - come back to Berlin."

As Friedhelm was walking towards the door - his footsteps heavy, and his usually slight limp a bit more pronounced, she suddenly felt such a desperate urge to caress the back of his hairline and his rigid shoulders. Such a desperate fear that in no time at all, the door will close behind him, and she will be left alone in this dark room with the flickering candle burning down.

"Warte...[23]"

He turned. The strained look on his face.

"Friedhelm..." she whispered, and her own voice sounded strange to her and plaintive like a child's, "I'm so scared... I don't understand anything but I'm scared... of you... of them... I've already been a traitor once. I don't want to go through that again. I don't want to end up like Fraulein Krüger."

His eyes softened.

"You won't. I'll make sure you won't. Once they get me, they will have no more power over you."

 

***

 

If he had tried to take her in his arms, she would have probably pushed him away.

Yet, he had not. It was only these invisible strings drawing - pulling - binding them towards each other. Closer and closer.

His lips moved under hers. He responded so quickly that their teeth banged together.  She felt the salty taste of blood from the gash left where she had hit him.

The bed creaked.

Bundled in their heavy winter clothes - in all these sheets and blankets. She heard something ripping. Some old washed out sheet.   _Forgive us, Charly, for destroying your fresh ironed bed cover. You'll know how it is soon enough - once you move in with Wilhelm and discover how creaky Friedhelm's bed can be, and how light his mother's and the neighbors' sleep is._

Her head hit the iron bed-head. Their arms and legs intertwined. He moved so fast that it even pained.  Yet, this pain was good. She wished it hurt her even more. She wanted him to hurt too.  But more than anything, she wanted Friedhelm to feel good.

Oh, what did she care for all of them?... Who were these people, after all? She suddenly could not even remember what was that man's name - that man who had been whispering to her, "My golden girl, Branka, my goldberry." Was it true that he had once mattered so much for her? He did not. No one did anymore.

She moved forward to meet Friedhelm. She held on him. Wrapped herself around him.

_It does not matter what you've done and what I've done. It does not matter what is going to happen to us.  I found you once. I washed your wounds and washed away all the blood, dirt, and sins.  I have nothing more to forgive you. You are mine..._

 

***

 

Their breathing was still uneven.

Yet, the cold was already creeping over, and they had to pull back on all the blankets and clothes.

Laying next to each other. Slowly coming back.

"Friedhelm, you said you didn't have anything with Fraulein Krüger..."

"That's right."

"What about other women? You've had a few other women after me, haven't you?"

"Yes."

It stung, and yet, she was glad he did not degrade himself by lying.

"Did it feel good?"

"Sometimes... I guess it's in the human nature. Once you've had it, you want to try out more. Not because you expect to find something better, but simply because ... it's a different experience. "

"I must probably get offended now."

"Don't. Didn't I just tell you that it doesn't matter much?"

"Do you love me then?"

She had to make a conscious effort not to hold her breath while waiting for his answer.

"What would you want me to say?"

"Yes or no will do. It's a simple question after all."

"It's not. A "yes" would bind you like any promise does. A "no" would be plain mean, you deserve much better than that," he was laying on his back and staring straight ahead - into the ceiling. His face was very still and contemplative.

She suddenly felt strange emptiness somewhere in the area of her womb.

"You don't have to go on. I get it."

 "No, you don't," He shifted to look at her, and she saw her own tiny reflection and the flickering candlelight in his pupils, "It's when I'm in you that I know that I've somehow made it, I am still living, and that maybe... just maybe, it was all worth it."

Her eyes stung. Yet, the emptiness in her womb turned into glowing warmth. She turned onto her stomach so that he wouldn't see her face just now.

"It was definitely worth it... For me."

He answered simply, "Danke, Branka."

 

***

 

The cold breath of draught into her face. The rapping on the door. Someone's heavy boots knocking it out.

"Halt! Стой! Ни с места![24]"

Ah... and she woke up.

It was all quiet in the room. The clock ticking on the wall. The distant snore of some neighbor in the room next to Charly's. The light shadows of the dawn.

Then, like a punch in the gut - where is Friedhelm?

The pillow still held the warm imprint of his head.

Branka jumped to her feet. Threw on her coat. Where were her shoes? No time for that...

Running off the staircase. "Frid..." Stumbling and falling at the last flight.

The street was quiet and empty.

The grey rubble. The flickering light in the windows. The brightening sky above the grey roofs. The ice crunching under her feet and burning through her stockings.  

The passers-by.

The blackened walls. The whole forest of the walls and beams.

Awkwardly jumping over the heaps of snow. Slipping on the frozen puddles. Running. Searching.

The tram stop and the crowded wagon.

The strangers' slouching shoulders. The strangers' grey and distant faces.

As long as she'd catch it... Slipping on the footboard.

Someone's arms pulling her in.

"Spinnst du? Mädel, bist du lebensmüde[25]?"

"Danke..."

There, a German had just lent her a helping hand. That meant they all had finally made it to the end of the war. Could he be one of those who had marched through the Czech villages?

Oh, what did she care now?..

She tried to force her way through the crowd but succeeded only in getting stuck in the middle - being squeezed from both sides, pushed from behind, and with someone's elbow in the dangerous proximity of her nose. Watching the top of Friedhelm's head far from her at the front of the wagon. Had he even seen her running after the tram? Would he now try to get off the tram at the next stop?

The wagon gradually emptied out.  Only a man and a woman were still standing at its opposite ends. Holding onto the straps. Their eyes met and locked.  Both got off at the last stop. Two blocks from the police headquarters at Keibelstraße.

_"I am scared... of you... of them..."_

_"Once they get me, they will have no power over you."_

 

___________________________________________________________________

 

**For those of you who, like Branka, are still wondering what the heck it's been all about...**

**Yes, Friedhelm has been a secret police agent all this time. First, recruited by the Americans (hence, the American and British food he had been bringing home and his familiarity with the black market), and then, later by the Soviets.**

**So far so good until someone from the Soviet secret police decided to intimidate and trick Branka into cooperation using the information they had on Friedhelm. Bad decision on their part.**

**Still one more very short chapter (more like an epilogue really) to go. Hope you'll stay tuned for the last update!**

**And yes, I'm really curious to know what you think of this twist? Did you expect something like this, or did it come out of nowhere for you? Happy with it? Disappointed? Bored? Interested?**

 

[1] Master-race (Aryan race)

[2] Kristallnacht or the Night of Broken Glass when the Jewish shops and residences were attacked throughout Germany

[3] The dinner is ready, gentlemen.

[4] Circus Aljosha was the ironic nickname for the Soviet Army popular in the Eastern Germany. Not sure when exactly it appeared.

[5] It's impossible.

[6] As you like

[7] What's going on? Where are going to move?

[8] Nothing, mother. Go to sleep.

[9] The name Sudetenland was banned after WWII

[10] My God! Mother of God (Czech)

[11] Is everything okay?

[12] Please don't (Russian)

[13] Before the damage is done

[14] Is everything clear?

[15] There is a good girl (Russian)

[16] What's wrong? You look quite upset

[17] Isn't it?

[18] The Nurse Charlotte's wounded patients

[19] Russian World War II song, "I was driving down the straight road from Berlin"

[20] Can I talk to you please?

[21] Who didn't you tell me?

[22] I am sorry.

[23] Wait

[24] Stop! (in German and Russian)

[25] Are you crazy, girl? Trying to get yourself killed?


	6. Eine neue Welt - The new world

Things are going to slide, slide in all directions   
Won't be nothing   
Nothing you can measure anymore   
The blizzard, the blizzard of the world   
has crossed the threshold   
and it has overturned   
the order of the soul   
When they said "repent"  
I wonder what they meant 

(Leonard Cohen, The Future)

**March 1947**

Side by side, the young man and woman walked down the side alley leading to Keibelstraße. They appeared neither too much in haste nor particularly distraught. To a casual observer, they might have even looked like idle strollers if it were not for the cold March wind and drizzle.

The man spoke first.

"Where did you lose your shoes?"

The woman looked down and seemed somewhat surprised to find her stockings torn and soaked through with melted snow and mud. There was a trace of bitterness in her voice as she responded.

"Shoes are nothing. Living with you, I am more worried about losing my mind."

The man kept his eyes averted as well. He seemed to be contemplating the remaining fingers on his gloved right hand.

"I owe you an apology," he said finally, "For coming to Charly's place and for leading you on."

She let out a tired grin.

"Who are you trying to trick now? Do you think I don't know what you really came there for? For a good-bye of a sort? So that you could have said to yourself, yes, she hates me and indeed, I deserve nothing better, and then, with your conscience clear, head off here... You didn't manage to kill yourself during the war, but what's the big deal? There is still a chance for you to turn yourself in voluntarily and thus, have your life flushed down the drain."

"Well then?"

"Well what?"

"Did I succeed? Is there any chance you might start hating me again like you did at the very beginning in Böhmerwald?"

She felt a goose walking over her grave and hastily turned away just in time to catch a glimpse of a tall Russian soldier crossing the road at the end of the alley.

"If you really hoped I'd hate you, the joke is all on you. Now, bitte, let's go back."

He shrugged.

"What for? I am no longer the only one involved. There is no point in waiting until the trap closes on both of us? I don't want them to hold me over your head. You don't know these people. There can be no compromise."

"Right. I'm the one involved now but you haven't asked for my opinion. You haven't asked whether I want you to save my neck at such a price."

He did not respond. Instead, he went down on one knee and took off his boots.

"What are you doing?"

"Here, put these on. You must be freezing," and as she stepped back, he added somewhat angrily, "Don't be stubborn. Come on, take these damned boots."

"No. You never listen to me, why should I listen to you? Tell me, Friedhelm, how is it for you? Does it feel good to sacrifice other people to your clear conscience? Your mother. Myself. I am not even going to talk about Wilhelm who will probably blame himself to the end of his days because his little brother has somehow become a war criminal."

"Leave my family out of this. Wilhelm is sure not my keeper anymore."

His light-blue leaden-hard stare. Yet again eerily reminding her of Herr Winter. The invisible barbed wire between them. Strangling him. Dragging him farther and farther away. Yet, something still alive flickered in his eyes as he looked again at her shoes-less feet.

She sighed in exasperation.

"Oh Friedhelm, don't you see? You've always been your own worst jailer and executioner."

Her teeth were chattering from the cold, and she did not particularly try to hide it.

Friedhelm took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders.

"Is that what you really want for yourself? Following me... being on the run for who knows how long?"

"It's not like I have any choice," She stepped closer so that their bodies almost touched, "Just tell me where to?"

"Why are you even asking? We've gone through the forest with the three armies. Each of them could take us down. Getting away now should be a piece of cake."

Yet another passer-by looked at them with idle curiosity. They indeed must have been a sight - both huddled against the wind and standing barefoot in the snow with a pair of boots next to them.

Again, Friedhelm broke the silence first.

"I guess the end is where we start from."

"What?"

Friedhelm's smile was pale, and yet, it was there as he gently broke free from her embrace and stooped down to help her put on and lace up his boots.

"An acquaintance of mine, an American officer, is into poetry. He borrowed me this new book by T. S. Eliot. The full quote is, 'What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from'."

Talking some book gibberish at the most crucial moment. It was so much like Friedhelm she had been used to, and thus, strangely comforting.

Branka knew their escape would be anything but a piece of cake, and Friedhelm knew that she knew this. When two people were planning to disappear, a thousand things could go wrong...

***

 **Case Nr.** ****  
**Crime Category:**  War Crimes  
**Accused:** Unteroff., W., Friedhelm  _10 Years_  
**Court Decision:**  
LG/BG Magdeburg*****  
**Country where the crime was committed:**  Poland  
**Crime Location:**  Zamość region  
**Crime Date:**  43 - 44  
**Victims:**  Civilians  
**Nationality:**  German  
**Agency:**  Wehrmacht Heer Regiment; 174. Reserve division  
**Subject of the proceeding:**  Participation in the hanging of civilians after a partisan attack; Participation in reprisal expeditions against Polish partisans; Shooting of Polish men, women and children who had been captured during anti-partisan raids ** **[1]****

********* **

**Case Nr.** ****  
**Crime Category:**  Denunciation  
**Accused:** W., Branka  _5 Years_  
**Court Decision:**  
LG/BG Magdeburg*****  
**Country where the crime was committed:**  Czechoslovakia  
**Crime Location:**  border region (former Sudetenland)  
**Crime Date:**  44  
**Victims:**  Civilians  
**Nationality:**  Czech  
**Agency:**  Private individual  
**Subject of the proceeding:**  Denunciation of civilians and partisan units which led to a subsequent mass execution

*******

**Summer of 1961**

At 4 am on Sunday, the small bar on Kurfüstendamm was dimly lit and almost empty. The bartender nodding off in his corner. The neon lights of the large hotel billboard across the road reflecting in the window and flickering on the surface of the polished counter and bottles.

The only three customers occupying the side table by the window did not seem in the least concerned about the time. The beer in their half-full glasses had gone flat, and the ash-tray was full to the brim.

Their talk was dying off and then taking off again at random as it often happens with people who have not seen each other for quite a while and up till this point have been busy catching up with the news.

The supply of news had finally been exhausted, and the time had come to take a real look at each other. The moment of re-union and recognition of well-familiar half-forgotten features on the face that was now prematurely lined not with age but with years of experience, worrying, and many sleepless nights.

"How's your mother doing? " asked the first man whose dark curly hair was already touched by gray. 

His friend, a slender medium-heighted man, his posture straight as it is common for any ex-military person, shrugged.

"Still refuses to move out. Frankly speaking, these weekly trips across the sectors are becoming tiresome.  After all it took me to get transferred and get this new apartment, she could have been a bit more accommodating. I'm not even talking about random document verifications and the looks I get from the Circus Aljosha people."

"Speaking of this, I am quite worried at how many military personnel are out there on the streets," the dark-haired man said, "You should be careful."

"Yes," his interlocutor frowned, "What do your colleagues say, Viktor?"

Viktor scowled.

"The official statement to the press was that 'Niemand hat die Absicht, eine Mauer zu errichten!'[2] But you can see for yourself how it is like," he glanced at the sleeping bartender and added quietly, "I'm not supposed to share this information until it is published but one of my colleagues actually managed to interview the fellow who is responsible for the orders of the barbed wire. He says the Soviets have stockpiled just enough wire to close off their sector."

"Well, this just gets better and better, isn't it? We got away right on time. If it only weren't for Mutter..."

"You can't really blame her. Her life has been spent in that apartment," the woman at his side said softly. Her lucid blue-grayish eyes lingered at her husband's face with quiet understanding, "Her life is in her memories now."

"It's all too good for you to say. It's not you who has to spend each Sunday - my only free day - stockpiling groceries, cleaning the mess, and listening to her nagging. Worst of all, she keeps calling me Friedhelm."

Another spell of silence fell upon the trio.

Viktor Goldstein absent-mindedly gulped the rest of his beer. Charlotte Winter - her eyes downcast - picked at the crumbs on the table. Her husband smoked yet another cigarette.

"Still no news?" Viktor asked cautiously as if wary of flaying old wounds.

Wilhelm's fine face features hardened in response to this half-question half-statement.

"I have hope," Charly said.

"Two ten-years-old postcards without a return address? Fat chance."

"You've forgotten that American businessman who came out of nowhere and lent you money right after the university had fired you. How many American businessmen do you know who would leave without reclaiming their debt?"

"We've already discussed this. There might have been many reasons that made him leave. To think that he was somehow connected to Friedhelm...You might as well hope that the Soviets will retreat this very morning."

"Why is it that you believed in better when it came to those pointless strikes at the university, but it is so hard for you to believe that your very own brother might be well and safe, and that one day you'll meet again?"

"I didn't believe in better. I believed in fighting for my rights and risked getting into Hohenschönhausen[3] . Even this would have been more preferable than allowing myself to hope and then having to give up this hope. Yet again."

"I hear you, but even stranger things have happened," Viktor said, and Charly intercepted a momentary hesitation in his voice at once.

"What is it, Viktor?"

He shook his head.

"Just a trifle. I wasn't even going to talk about this but since you guys have started... A year ago when Miriam and me were on our honeymoon trip to San Francisco..."

"Oh, I remember that photo you've mailed us," Charly smiled.

Viktor grinned somewhat sheepishly.

"Yeah, a fine newlywed couple. One daughter a bridesmaid, and yet another on her way. Even so, Miriam was still afraid of being a burden and binding me to herself. She still sometimes calls our wedding rings the chain rings...and myself the wandering Jew... Anyway, back to my story. Coming from the airport, our car was stuck in the traffic in the middle of the highway. It was hot and stuffy. Little Greta was whining for air, so we opened all the windows. As I looked out, I saw that brand-new Chevrolet Corvette moving in the opposite direction... It was only a brief moment but I thought I recognized the driver... It was really more like a memory than actual recognition. The 1944th. Poland. Friedhelm driving that SS officer's car. Us locking glances... Only a moment... and then, that stylish car was gone, and I was still stuck in the traffic... Oother cars honking, and my wife and daughter screaming because I was trying to swerve in the opposite direction and chase the Corvette."

He fell silent and beckoned the bartender over.

His friends did not say anything as they were paying the bill and hailing a taxi.

Already inside the car which was swiftly moving along the freshly-washed streets, shady sidewalks, still sleeping living quarters, and office buildings in construction, Wilhelm said quietly.

"Chevrolet Corvette... Friedhelm always liked fancy cars. As a child, he used to have these toy trucks..."

"The trucks that are now collecting dust in your mother's apartment," Charly smiled, "I should mention Corvette in Friedhelm's new postcard."

"Friedhelm's postcard? Haven't you just said you received only two?" Viktor was puzzled.

"Charly came up with this idea a couple of years ago," Wilhelm explained, "Mother has very poor eyesight and can no longer read small handwriting. So, now, every few months or so, Charly sends off a postcard from Friedhelm, and I then pretend to be very surprised and happy pulling it out of my Mother's mailbox."

His laughter was somewhat bitter.

"I'll come with you today," Charly said. Her hand intertwined with his, and her other hand was resting on Viktor's shoulder, "The kids can have breakfast on their own, and I haven't visited Frau Winter for a long time."

"I'll see you guys off," Viktor offered and turned to give new directions to the driver.

"The Eastern Sector?" the man frowned, "Take my advice and wait a day or two. I've seen some commotion over there since 2 am. The Volkspolizei are closing off all the roads and lining up at the checkpoints. I think I even saw some water cannons."

"I'd like to see them try turning away the New York Times correspondent," Viktor winked at Wilhelm and Charly, "I'll tell them we are on a diplomatic mission."

The car swerved around the curve...

It was a bright quiet morning of August 13th, 1961.

Checkpoint Charlie was still only one of many crossing points.

Berliners were just waking up and planning their Sunday visits across East and West Sectors.

The Volkspolizei were re-charging their guns just in case.

Surrounded by the creaky 30s style pieces of furniture in her old apartment in the Mitte district, an elderly woman, who had patiently endured her insomnia through yet another long night, was leafing through the old photos and postcards in her album. Her short-sighted dim eyes peered unseeingly at the yellowed pages on which the two baby boys were smiling with their yet toothless gums and the two teenagers in Hitlerjugend uniform were standing at attention. The serious older boy looking straight at the camera, and the delicate younger boy scowling ever so slightly.

A couple of blocks from her apartment complex, the newly installed barbed wire fence was glimmering in the morning sun.

**Sometime in the early 2000s**

The old man's hand was shaking slightly as he awkwardly scrolled the mouse and peered at the computer screen through his thick glasses.

The middle-aged woman, her eyes blue, large, and clear, and two boys in their late teens - early twenties, who were sitting behind the old gentleman, exchanged worried looks.

"Ich hab' dir gesagt, Mum, das war keine gute Idee[4]," the older boy said. His tone was not unkind but somewhat sassy as if he was used to his opinions being often overlooked and strove to assert himself, "At his age, Grandpa needs no mental breakdown. Don't you think so, Willi?"

The younger boy raised his eyes from the large folder on his lap. His smile was somewhat reticent but sweet.

"Maybe," he said quietly. A faint trace of British accent in his voice, "I asked you not to call me Willi though."

"Billy then?" the older boy grinned mischievously, "Why, Billy der Bücherwurm sounds even better. Something your Klugscheißerchen[5] classmates at Oxford might appreciate." 

Their mother furtively glanced at the old man still immersed in his reading and whispered. 

"You do know after whom you were named, Friedhelm, don't you?" 

The young man's handsome face grew somewhat sullen. 

"Sure I do. Grandpa has been bugging me with the family history lectures for as long as I can remember."

 "It was his life - not a history lesson, and what your Grandfather has been through at your age..." 

"Save your breath, I know.... I'll never live up to his brother's name, is that what you wanted to say? Just 'cause unlike Willi, I'm not into my studies - 'cause I know life is too short for that - and I'm not at all interested in what had happened 50 years before I was even in prospects..." "And you're obviously quite proud of that..."

 "Leave him be," the old man said, "It's very good that the boy doesn't care. It's the very best thing I could wish for my grandsons. Never to know and never to care about war." 

"Sorry, Grandpa, I didn't think you could hear us." 

"Normally I can't. It just so happened that I've got myself a new hearing device."  

The old man's voice was raspy, and his breathing was labored. But when he took off his glasses, his shortsighted eyes were unusually bright. The hopeful and anxious eyes of a young man on his deeply lined face. 

"Do you think these third-hand records are even valid?" 

The woman hesitated. 

The man's smile was sad and gentle. 

"You're so like your mother. Charly could never tell a lie to my face." 

The woman blinked, and her lips quivered. 

"I... cannot say for sure, of course, but I've made inquiries and I've been consulting my colleagues. They all think there is a good chance that your brother indeed might have been participating in Operation Bloodstone[6]." 

"Inquiries..." The man sighed, "You and your brother were young back then. You don't remember. Back in the 60s - 70s, we've made hundreds of inquiries in spite of Iron Curtain. We even got hold of that Czech journalist who used to know Branka and her family... I think his name was Tomash Novák... Viktor contacted immigration organizations in America and Great Britain. It was of no use, and now... with all the time gone... " 

"Exactly," Willi said snapping the folder shut, "Now, with all the time gone, more documents might come into the light. Just wait and see." 

"Waiting isn't exactly the best strategy at Grandpa's age." 

"Friedhelm! Don't listen to him, Vater." 

"Well, he is right after all, Töchterchen[7]. There is nothing to shrink away from."

"I hate when you're talking like that."

"Why? Being old has certain advantages. I can choose whom to listen to and when by just turning my device on or off."

The boys' eyes twinkled with laughter, but the woman only shook her head.

"Most importantly, as I grew old, I've learnt a simple truth that everything is relative. Life and death. Crimes and noble deeds," the old man added turning away from the computer and folders scattered across the desk, "It's what I - we - choose to believe in. I might choose to believe that my brother and his wife perished in a labor camp in Siberia, or I might believe that they indeed escaped to America, were employed by the Defense Language School at Monterey, California. Safe and well-off. Earning enough to buy a brand new Chevrolet Corvette. I might go on reading these records stating him as a cold-blooded war criminal, and her as an SS collaborator, and God knows what else, or I might remember Friedhelm as I always knew him. Der Bücherwurm who did not want to kill right to the point he almost got himself killed. The man who understood everything about war more clearly than anyone else from the start and yet chose to fulfill his duty. Who knew me better than I knew myself... All things considered, I'd rather follow your mother's example. I choose to believe in better."

***

**March 1947**

...Branka knew their escape would be anything but a piece of cake, and Friedhelm knew that she knew this.

Yet, she smiled back at him as she said, "I've always wanted to see the ocean. Do you think you could arrange that for us?"

"Get ready for a dive in deep dark water then. But first, let's clear out of here before curiosity gets the best of that Soviet Comrade over there."

Notwithstanding this feigned lightness, he was watching her as one might watch someone who had been long-lost for years and then found.

Who are you? And who am I now?

She answered him without words. With her eyes only, " It's us together from now on. We've survived, and most likely we both - you and I - might be paying for this."

_This is how it should be. The burden and guilt is mine no less than yours. You followed the orders, and I - and such as me - were fine with that. For as long as it did not harm us._

_The jealous red-haired teen-girl angrily whispering in her pillow on the night of her stepbrother's wedding, "Jolana,_ _zatraceně Žid **[8]**_ _?...I wish they came and got you."_ _The real evil - the crime of hate towards those we perceive at a more advantage or simply different from us - is always committed first in our thoughts. Everything that comes after - the broken store windows on Kristallnacht, the boots marching through the cities and villages, the sensitive intelligent boys becoming soldiers and soldiers becoming murderers  - is only the consequences of that initial crime of hate committed by regular citizens._  

_But right now... wir leben noch_ _**[9]** _ _... A Czech and a German._ _Both of us the victims and both of us the culprits. It's not for us to know why we are still living... perhaps, to serve as a reminder of this time of terror and darkness to those generations who will come after us... Perhaps, there is some other higher plan in store for us..._

Let him who is without sin cast the first stone...

THE END...

...THE NEW BEGINNING

**A huge thank you to everyone who has been reading, reviewing, and liking this story (you know who you are!). Without your support, there would have been no story.**

**Hope you enjoyed it (and if you did, you'll make my day by letting me know about it), and even if you didn't like it, I'll always be happy to know your opinion.**

 

[1] The document template was retrieved from the actual East German Court Judgments at  <http://www1.jur.uva.nl/junsv/ddr/DDRDienststellenengfr.htm>

The Wehrmacht  regiment indicated here is not named in the movie. It is one of the regiments that have served in Poland at that time and participated in the anti-partisan raid, so I figured Friedhelm might as well have served there.

[2] 'No one has the intention of erecting a wall!' (The statement of the DDR representative at the international press-conference immediately preceding the erection of Berlin wall).

[3] Stasi prison in East Berlin

[4] I told you, Mom, it wasn't a good idea.

[5] Smarty pants

[6] Operation Bloodstone was administered by CIA in 1948 and throughout 1950s. It focused on helping some trusted members of the Third Reich military organizations and Nazi party escape as refugees from the Soviet-controlled areas. Afterwards,  certain German refugees were recruited by the intelligence agencies and were predominantly engaged in covert operations in the countries of Eastern Europe. 

[7] Little daughter

[8] Damned Jew (Czech)

[9] We still live (German)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not quite sure where to add this, so I decided to leave it here as P.S. for those who, after reading the story, might be interested.
> 
> I usually don't like detailed appearance descriptions, so I had only a few descriptions in the story, but for those of you who might want a face to go with the character, when I was writing Branka, I had a younger version of Czech actress Anna Geislerová in mind: http://img.ceskatelevize.cz/program/porady/10591446886/foto09/01.jpg?1393603874


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